Shift
by OurLittleSecretOkay
Summary: A collection of drabbles, half-baked plots, and ideas from the Here universe. filled with loose-ends, self-indulgent nonsense, and prompt work. AUs and alternate timelines abound, riddled with noncanonical, semicanonical, and definitively canonical cut scenes! Enjoy!
1. When the broken glass litters the floor

Did it even matter anymore who hit first when the violence was a senseless as it was ineffective? No, not ineffective-Mutual. Shared. In the end she wasn't any better off, and now, they had one less bottle of wine. She had one less bottle of wine. It really was his fault; he should have known better.

It was his fault, really. He should have known better. "You wouldn't dare." Had stupider words ever been spoken? Any indecisiveness left in her shattered with the glass against the floor the moment he had spoken. For a moment, she seemed so startled herself that he could laugh, but her surprise quickly steeled itself into harsh indignation.

Wordlessly, he picked up his own glass, and not breaking eye contact, he dropped it. It smashed with a satisfying, if brief, symphony of cracks.  
"Hey!" she turned her eyes back to him, livid, "I have to clean that up now!"  
"Oh, I'm sorry, did my juvenile little temper tantrum somehow inconvenience you?"  
"I swear, I-" Quickly, she lifted a plate holding it above her head, "If you don't apologize, I'll drop it!"  
"Then drop it."  
She did. Less satisfyingly, the plate fell with a thunk, only chipping against the floor.  
"No, here; more like this." Lifting the offending piece above his head, he brought it down hard, scatting the porcelain into a constellation of fragments. "Try again."

Burning, she grabbed the closest thing within reach, which just happened to be another stemmed glass. Letting it fall to the floor, she kept her hands in the air, gesturing out, "There! Is that better? Is that good enough for you, you asshole?"  
"Ehh," he clicked his tongue, doing his damndest to be as infuriating as possible. "More of a break than a shatter. If you're going to ruin my things, at least have the decency to do it well. Observe-" he broke another, smaller, dish.  
"Fuck off! You have a height advantage!"  
"Language. Besides, it's a bad craftsman who blames his tools. At this point, I'm willing to bet you can't."  
"You- I am not-" Entirely too easily baited, she only hesitated a moment. Ready to damn them both at this point, she grabbed the nearest bottle of wine. Lifting the bottle behind her head, she was only marginally aware of him being there at all.  
"Wait!" He held his hands out. Did he really think he could stop her now? "Maybe you're onto something!" And then he was catching her around her thighs, lifting her up. The side of her leg pressed to his shoulder, and she wobbled a bit, catching herself. "Alright, now go!"  
Holding onto the bottle she was only moments ago threatening to obliterate, she looked down at him, at them, making such an obscene show of impropriety she hoped an afterlife didn't exist just so that no one else had to witness it. And then she laughed.

She laughed, "I- I changed my mind. I don't want to anymore."  
"What do you mean you don't want to?" Unable to look at her face, he simply tilted his head upwards.  
"Seems like a waste of wine, yeah?"  
"Of course it is. Wine is one of the few things meant to be wasted."  
"I don't know. Hardly seems worth it anymore if it isn't going to piss you off."  
"At this point, it would be more distressing if you didn't."  
"You're only hurting yourself here."  
"I didn't know dropping things required so much thought."  
"Alright. Here; you ready?"  
"I was born ready."

Hoisting the bottle over her head again, this time she let it fall the impressive length to the floor. Both of them watched it, the glass breaking marvelously into small bits that littered the floor. The cherry red wine exploded like a firework, making a crime scene of the already dismal floor. Grabbing onto his shoulders, she let him lower her onto the table.  
She tried to hop down, among the carnage, but he stopped her with a quick hand, "Better stay up there. I don't know if you know this, but there's some glass on our floor."  
"Only some?" Looking down, she surveyed with equal parts pride and dread the menagerie of incomplete pieces, a mosaic in honor of madness. Folie a deux, the artform. The cuffs of his pants were thoroughly stained, and she wondered abscently if she'd be able to wash it out. Part of her hoped not. It would serve him right. But then he was kissing her and she couldn't be mad, couldn't remain angry; it was all so ridiculous.

And she was beautiful, surrounded by debris and bad decisions. Her arms sagged with the tiredness only a good and lethal outburst can bring, and he'd be lying if he denied how incredibly gorgeous she looked, weapon in hand, even if said weapon is only a chipped plate. He kissed her, and she leaned into him, holding onto his shoulders, her hands tugging him closer. He touched her knees, the stained fabric of her dress, her deceptively strong legs, which she was now pressing against him.  
"God, I love you." The words were as much a part of the scene as the spilled wine and shattered ceramic. He was all tied up in the mess too, irrevocably and unaccountably undone by her. He kissed her lips and she kissed him back, kindly allowing his destruction.


	2. I love you from very far away

It was weird not seeing him. She didn't want to say she didn't like it, but she certainly wasn't used to it. He was such a large personality, any space not occupied by him seemed suddenly to be lacking. No, not lacking, empty. Or maybe empty wasn't right either. Maybe she was spending too much time thinking about it.  
Things were quieter; that much was certain. And perhaps more ominous. The only thing worse than having him around was not having him around; there was no telling what he was up to. And honestly, if history was to be a predictor, it could be just about anything. It wouldn't have been worth it to ask; he only would have dodged the question, and besides, did she really want to know? Ignorance wasn't necessarily bliss, but neither was knowing and being unable to do anything about it. The worst part of it was that he probably didn't think half as much about her. It was ridiculous, being worried about a grown man. Although, to be fair, she was less worried about him and more worried for everybody else. He was a force of destruction, she was well aware of that. And still, the house seemed too quiet.  
The knock at the door startled her. She was smart enough to be scared by it; he didn't tend to have visitors she liked, let alone wanted to be with alone. When she peered through the window, the man outside seemed concerningly at ease, bored almost. Carefully, she opened the door only after taking stock of the nearby lamp, which could easily be employed as a weapon if need be.  
The man appraised her quickly, "Can you sign for a delivery?"  
She raised an eyebrow, but nodding, scrawled out a signature on the clipboard proffered her. Handing her a deceptively light box, the man nodded with a tip of his hat and was off.  
Closing the door behind her, she turned the package over in her hands. It was awkwardly shaped, all length with almost no width. Setting it down on the kitchen counter, she chose the slightest knife she could, carefully opening it.  
The cardboard unfurled to reveal a mess of flowers, gaudy implausible shades of oranges and reds. More than a bit surprised, she lifted them from the box carefully, looking them over. A tag fell to the ground which she bent to pick up, careful not to crumple the flowers.  
"Will be late. Don't get into trouble, but if you must, at least make sure you keep the problems solvable." He didn't specify how late, but judging from the amount of flowers, she was willing to bet it would be at least another two days. Searching the kitchen for a vase, she came up empty, and so filling a glass with water, she carefully placed them in, letting them settle however they pleased. Gently, she placed them on the counter, making sure they got the best of the kitchen sunlight. The petals were a spot of warmth, soft and lovely amongst the hard edges of knives and cabinets. Sighing, she touched them lightly with her fingertips, feeling the velvet softness beneath her hands.


	3. As a taunt, with one eyebrow raised

"Can I ask for a moment's peace, or is that too unreasonable?" He didn't have to see her face to know the exact expression she was making; exasperation, indignation, and something akin to a dare. She faced towards the kitchen window, more fixed on the dishes than the task demanded, rubbing circles until he was sure she was going to bore straight through the plate.  
"Come now, it's a bit early for flattery, isn't it?"  
"Is there any chance of me convincing you to leave me alone?"  
"I doubt it."  
"Any particular thing I've done to incur such punishment?"  
"Well," coming up behind her, he rested his hands against her waist, "that neckline isn't particularly helping."  
"Let go, I'm still mad at you." Sidestepping, she removed herself from his grasp.  
"Come on, we both know you can't stay mad," reaching for her again, he kissed the back of her neck.  
"Really? Is that really something you want to bet?"  
"You're very easily… persuaded into my favor."  
"Alright, that's it. You're done. Get out."  
"Now, I hardly think you're being fair. Here I am, slaving away, and you can't even take yourself away from your things for five minutes for your poor, suffering husband?"  
"My th- I'm washing dishes, you idiot."  
"Is that anyway to speak to your lover?"  
"You're completely and utterly insufferable-you know that, right?"  
"All I ever do is try to help," languishingly, he stretched himself out so that he was exactly in her way, the back of a hand pressed to his forehead, "and nothing is ever good enough for demanding, needy Violet."  
"Yes, bravo. Quite the performance."  
"I receive no respect, no acknowledgement," theatrically, he threw his arm over his eyes in a grand show of distress. She giggled despite herself, quickly sifling the sound, but not quickly enough to keep him from catching it. Just barely suppressing a smirk, he continued. "All day long you beat and berate me and leave me for dishes."

"A wonderful, if inaccurate, performance. Inspiring, really. Now if you're quite done-"  
"Have you ever known me to be done?"  
"Fair enough."  
"Besides, has it ever occured to you that maybe I didn't come here to see you. Maybe I don't need an alibi or motive just to enter my own damn kitchen?"  
"In which case you'd be leaving me alone, yes?"  
"Why so eager to see me go? Have something to sneak off to?"  
"No, but it would serve you right."  
"For what?"  
"For whatever the hell this is." Her words were harsh but she smirked as she said them.  
"Oh yes? Well, maybe I'll sneak off then."  
"Alright."  
"Who knows, maybe I'll find a wife who appreciates my so-called 'interruptions.' One who likes me more than dishes."  
"Yes, good luck with that."  
"You're talking big for someone about to be fired."  
"When it's a marriage, I believe it's called divorce."  
"See, this attitude is exactly why I'm leaving you."  
"Oh, I'm sure," picking up a cloth, she began to dry a plate.  
"You don't think I can?"  
"I don't think you will."  
"Oh? What's keeping me?"  
Standing on her toes, she kissed him quick, with a smile, "You weren't smart enough to not get invested."  
"Oh, yes, because I really just love you so much," he scoffed as he said it, but leaning down, he kissed her again, encircling her waist.


	4. Over and over again

"Can I help you?"  
"Just looking."  
"Alright, well," she gripped his wrists, pulling his hands off her face, "maybe a little less touching with all that looking."  
"How often do you look at your face?"  
"Pardon?"  
"Is that what takes women so long to get ready? Is it looking at your face?"  
"Okay, you're drunk. Let's go, time for bed."  
"No no no, I'm serious," he fell backwards as she tried to pull him up, tugging her down towards him.  
Fruitlessly she pulled at his arm, "Besides, you take twice as long as me to get ready for anything."  
"And I am very handsome."  
"Speaking of you, why don't we get you upstairs? Come on, help me."  
"Shh," he shushed her gently, once more catching her face between his hands. "Listen to what I am saying."  
"I'm listening." Her tone had all the resigned qualities of any person trying to talk sense into their drunken quarry.  
"You…" he gripped her tighter, holding her cheeks fast between his palms, "You."  
"Yes?"  
"Your face."  
"So you've said."  
"It's pretty alright, you know."  
"Well, if I wasn't swooning already. Come on, you can tell me more about my face upstairs."  
"Upstairs?" he cocked an eyebrow, delightfully amused, "Are you trying to take advantage of me?"  
"No, I'm trying to take you to bed, only," sighing, she switched tactics, "I'm afraid I'm just not strong enough."  
"What?"  
"I can't lift you. I'm not tough and manly enough to get you upstairs."  
"No one is."  
"No one at all?"  
"Have you ever known anyone to successfully make me do anything?"  
"Never," she shook her head reverently. "Why's that?"  
"Because I'm a very," he lolled, sitting forward, "I'm a very powerful man."  
"Oh, of course."  
"And you," he pushed her hair back messily, pulling her face towards him so that he could be sure she was looking at him, "You are very pretty."  
"So you've said. A few times already."  
"No, you're not listening," he was becoming visibly agitated and so she quieted down, looking at him meaningfully. "It's very important, for me, that you're pretty because I can only ever have the best, yes?"  
"Sounds right."  
"Yes. But here's the thing," his flicking eyes met hers, holding her stare, "You. God damn. God damn it. You did such a good job."  
"A good job?"  
"At, I don't know. At you. At being terrible and pretty and small and," he brushed her hair back again, pausing. "You really fucked me over here, you know that, right?"  
"Pardon?"  
"That," he held a finger up, treacherously close to her face, "that was your fault."  
"What was my fault?"  
"I didn't mean to."  
"I'm sure you didn't."  
"I just. Fuck, I love you." He held onto her desperately, a look of clear terror in his eyes that broke into an amused laugh.  
She laughed too, despite herself, "Alright, yeah. How much did you drink? More importantly, what did you drink? Straight absinthe?"  
"I love you, I do, I love you."  
"I'm aware."  
"No, listen. I'm trying to tell you something."  
"I'm listening! I've already told you I'm listening."  
Holding her face mere inches from his, he stared straight into her eyes, humorously serious, "I… love you." She laughed then and he laughed too, not entirely certain why they were laughing, but happy all the same.  
"Alright. Thank you very much. Do you want to sleep on the couch tonight?"  
"No," struggling he stood, "I don't know if you know this, but I have a bed."  
"Oh, do you? I wasn't aware."  
"And my bed has a wife in it."  
"Any wife at all?"  
"My wife. Mine. And she's…" he paused at the stairs, cupping her face again to kiss her. She held onto him warily, hoping he wouldn't tip over onto her. Unsteady, he leaned against the wall, pulling her along with him. "God. I love you, I do. I love you. I love you." The words melded against her lips, twisting into something shapeless and wonderful. "I love you. I love you. I love you so fucking much. Way too much. I love you. I love you so much. I do. I love you." Her stomach twisted, uncertain about anything save for the fact of how dangerous this was.  
"I know," she smiled, holding onto him, "I know. Now come on, I'm tired."


	5. As we huddle together, the storm raging

"It's not funny!"  
"To the contrary, I think it's quite funny."  
"You're an ass!" But then there was a clap of thunder again and she jumped, startled.  
He laughed, "Come on. Tell me that's not funny. Brave and resilient Violet, afraid of the weather."  
"I'm not afraid of it! I just… don't like it. I don't have to be afraid of something to not like it. Kind of like you."  
"Well that was hardly necessary."  
Another clap of thunder boomed, rattling the windows. She grit her teeth, willing herself not to seem afraid. She only had to finish this, and then she could go. Of course it was this window which had to leak. It just had to be the highest room. Logically, she knew her odds were good, but…  
The light flashed again, swiftly followed by a booming crack. "See, we're in the worst of it now," he gestured out.  
"Not helpful."  
"It'll be over soon enough."  
No matter how soon, it could not possibly be soon enough. Standing up, she surveyed her work. It wasn't going to win any awards in a beauty contest, but it would do. She could make it more bearable later.  
"Alright, done." She gathered her tools, ready to escape as quickly as possible to someplace less strikable.  
"Very nice. Are you ready for bed, now?"  
The lights flickered, causing both of them to pause, staring at the contrasting brightness outside.  
"Maybe a glass of wine first? Come on, let's go." Not giving him time to answer, she gathered her things, heading downstairs.

He looked over at her as the lights flickered again. Her glance danced to the window but she didn't say anything, simply held her glass tighter. It was weird to see her afraid, let alone of something that wasn't him. For a moment, he even felt bad for teasing her. She downed the rest of her glass, curled stiffly at the end of the couch. Stretching out his legs, he rested his feet on top of her, earning an indignant stare.  
"Can I get you another glass?"  
"I'm fine."  
"Alright. Let me know." He hadn't the slightest clue how to make her feel better, what he could possibly do that didn't feel like teasing. As ridiculous as it was, being afraid of weather, it was almost endearing. They sat in silence, listening to the rain beating outside. He had been wrong when he'd said it would be over soon, or perhaps it only felt that way, with her putting him on edge. What a silly girl. There was another clap of thunder, and he could feel her flinch, an instinctive shudder.

"I'm getting you another glass."  
"Okay, thank you." She let him take it from her hand, grateful to get away from him. God, how embarrassing. The last thing she needed was for him to have something else to hold over her. It was silly, she knew it was silly. She was perfectly safe, at least from the storm. There was no way- And then there was another flash of lightning and she had to close her eyes, breathing in through her nose, trying to still her racing heart. This was fine. She was fine.  
She curled her knees in tighter to her chest, her fingers pressed to her throat, feeling her racing pulse. She was fine, damnit. There was no reason for her to be such a child about this. And yet, with every pulsing crack, she could feel the foundations of the house shake, the sound crawling into her bones, disrupting her heartbeat. God damn it. The lights flickered again, staying off this time.  
Anyone who says they aren't afraid of the dark is a liar. Yes, she was in her own house. Yes, she was safe and warm and protected. And yes, he wasn't there to see her jump, but damn it all if it wasn't all the worse for that. Her fingers tightened over the fabric of the couch, trying to grip the material. Damn it all, what was taking him so long? The room was a black box, illuminated only by the flashes outside the windows, the glass shaking with each crack of lightning. There wasn't even a moment between now. Staring at the glass, she offered up a prayer that it wouldn't break. This was the worst of it. This was survivable. This was fine. She was fine.  
She heard him curse as he bumped into the door, opening it with his shoulder. It wasn't every day that she was relieved to see him, and yet, she still managed to dredge up some irritation if only to keep his ego in check.  
"What took so long? Did you get lost?"  
"Pardon me for not being able to see."  
"It's all of ten feet away!"  
"Well, I come bearing gifts." Carefully, he held out a mug to her. Taking it, she quickly realized it was hot, and so readjusting her grip, she brought it down to see what exactly he had gotten into.

She seemed genuinely surprised at the cup of tea, looking up at him, "Oh, thanks."  
There was another crack of thunder as he sat down, rolling his own glass of wine in his hand, "I just figured… I can get you something else if-"  
"No, that's- It's perfect. Thanks."  
They sat in silence again, close enough to be touching but not so close that anyone could mistake it for affection.  
Sighing, he stretched his arm out along the back of the couch, resting it behind her head, "It's getting late."  
"If you're tired, you should go to bed."  
"No, I'm fine. Are you tired?"  
"No."  
"Alright."  
They lapsed back into silence, the white noise of the rain angry raging outside. It would be soothing, if not for her tense nature. Reaching out, he ruffled her hair, incurring an angry swat at his hand, "Hey!"  
"So, storms?"  
"What about them?"  
"They scare you?"  
"Oh my god. Drop it, will you?"  
"No, I'm not teasing this time." She glared at him in disbelief. Holding his hands out, he shrugged, "I promise!"  
"You're always teasing."  
"You just make it so easy."  
"Alright, whatever."  
"No, I'm serious. I'm not making fun; I'm just surprised."  
"I told you, I'm not scared."  
"Alright, sure. You're not scared."  
"I'm not."  
"I believe you." Wrapping his arm around her, he pulled her against him. She leaned into the touch, resting her head against his shoulder. "But just say, hypothetically, that you were-"  
"Oh my god."  
"What about it is so scary? Or, would be," he corrected himself, "if, hypothetically, someone was to be afraid."  
"I don't know," she shrugged. "Does it matter?"  
"No," he pressed his lips to the top of her head, "I suppose it doesn't."

As the night went on, she slipped further into his arms, relaxing into his embrace, even laughing occasionally at whatever it was he had said. He reclined slowly, without even meaning to, warm with the effect of the wine. Both of them were drunk off of the hour, staying up far too late, sleep being made nearly impossibly by the magnitude of the storm. She lay against his chest, her words growing further apart until, eventually, she fell asleep on top of him. He stroked her hair softly, counting the seconds until the storm was far off enough that it wouldn't wake her, and then, exhausted, fell asleep as well.


	6. While a house burns to the ground

"Are you going to throw up?"  
"I'm not going to throw up."  
"Are you sure?"  
"I'm sure."  
"It's just, you kind of look like you're going to throw up."  
"I'm fine."  
He stayed quiet, deferring to her judgement. He didn't want to push her; that wasn't what she needed right now. To be honest, he wasn't at all sure what she did need; it had never been like this before.  
He couldn't decide if she was his forever or if he had finally lost her. She had power now, an authority she hadn't had before. Something changes inside of you, the first time you destroy for the sake of destruction. Sure, there were other things happening, other forces and whatnot, but in the end, that's what it was. Destruction.  
The black sky lit up orange, the light catching on her loose hairs, making a halo of her silhouette. Ten inches of space remained between them, and still she was miles away. He wondered what she was thinking about, if it was the same depth of quiet fire had brought him. He wouldn't be surprised; they had so much in common already.  
A fraction of the light caught against her eyes, her pallid face colored rosy by the blaze, and for a moment he forgot not to stare. Silent, she looked over at him, her unblinking gaze unearthly in its calm.  
"And it gets easier?"  
"Yeah." The word was barely a whisper as he found himself embarrassingly mute.  
She looked away again, squinting towards the light, "It would have to, I suppose."  
There were thousands of things he wanted to say, and none of them seemed right. How do you say "I envy the match in your hand" without burning yourself out? But god, for her sake, he could come undone entirely so long as she promised to unspool him. As she stood, straight-backed, staring at the wreckage they had created, he couldn't help but think she was built to sit upon a throne.  
"You don't have to do all that, you know." The words came out harsher than he had intended. She only looked at him quizzically, letting him finish. "What I mean is, I won't think any less of you."  
"I wasn't worried about that."  
"You don't have to be okay with it right now. It can be an acquired taste."  
"Does it have to? Do I have to enjoy it?"  
"No, but it'll make your life easier." He smirked, "Definitely more fun." She didn't smile back, watching his expression carefully. He sighed, "It's in your blood. You've got a predisposition to the addiction."  
"Addiction?"  
"There's something lovely about watching all your problems just," he waved his hand loosely, "burn to a crisp."  
"I think you overestimate your abilities."  
"I think you just don't know where to set your fires."  
"Maybe you're right." She looked away again.  
"Of course I am."  
The air sizzled, made him itch to look away from her. It wasn't fear; there was no need for him to be afraid of her. No, it was awe. She was awesome in the traditional sense of the word, a goddess of discord, destruction, detritus. He was a fool to have ever thought her breakability was a weakness; there had never been a sight as beautiful as her shattering, terrible and wonderful all at once.  
"And what happens now?"  
"Now?" He shrugged. "We go back home."  
"That's it?"  
"Why, what did you have in mind?"  
"No, just," she gestured out, "We pretend everything is still the same?"  
"Everything is still the same."  
"No it's not." Her placid quietness was more terrifying than any outburst ever could be. For a moment, he worried he had broken her beyond repair.  
"No," looking back to the blaze, he squinted his eyes against the light, "it's not." The air was heavy with the scent of smoke, thick and permeating every part of them. For a moment he fancied going up in ashes as well.  
"Will it ever be again?"  
"You'd be surprised at what you can get used to."  
"I hardly see how one could get bored of arson."  
"Used to is not the same as bored with, Darling."  
"No?"  
"No. Just because I'm used to your moral knots doesn't make them any less exasperating and entertaining."  
"I don't think that's a viable problem anymore."  
"You'll find a way to make it one." Glancing up and down her frame, he took in her soot-stained forearms and legs, the smudge of ash against her cheek. "Ambiguity is a good look on you."  
Shuddering, she crossed her arms tight against her chest. He closed the distance between them, loping an arm over her shoulder casually. They watched the blaze for entirely too long, the seconds becoming eternities, only being torn away by the necessity of a clean escape.  
"Don't get soot in my car," he muttered, opening the door, and she actually laughed, an exhausted, breathy laugh.

Even after the car was parked, they both sat in silence, neither of them breaking the quiet that had pervaded their space ever since they had left. And so they remained, in the dark, side by side and yet still entirely alone. Neither moved to get out of the car, the air still thick with the remnants of the smoke, tangled up in their hair and the fabric of their clothes.  
"Does it? Get easier, I mean?" Her voice cracked in the quiet. He took a moment before answering, giving it the consideration it was due.  
"Yes."  
"Alright." That was good enough for her. She believed him. Against her better judgement and all common sense, she believed him.  
"Violet," he spoke quietly, trying to get her attention. She turned to look at him, actually seeing him for the first time all night. Without saying anything else, he leaned across the front seat of the car, catching her face in his hand as he kissed her.  
As she kissed him back, she thought of the box of matches still in his pocket, of the empty gas tanks and desecrated walls. She kissed him back, feeling the red pulse of her veins, the simmering heat of red matchstick tips and red-hot climbing flames. Pulling away, she caught her breath, meeting his eyes.  
"We're okay?"  
"We're okay. You're okay." He smoothed back her hair gently, "I won't let anything happen to you."  
"Anything other than ruining me?"  
"I'd hardly call you ruined."  
"I'm sorry, did you miss everything that happened tonight?"  
"Believe me, I did not." Softly, he kissed her again. "God, you're incredible."  
"An incredible mess; I'm more ash than person."  
"And it is beyond delightful." He smiled, feeling her laugh, her lips still pressed to his.  
"Alright then."  
"You are. It is. My god, woman, given half the chance, I'd let you make me a pyre."  
"Perhaps don't do that."  
"I'm only saying, if you're damned, then I'm happily following you to hell."  
"I think it might be the other way around."  
"Yeah?"  
"Yeah."  
"You know I love you, right?"  
"I am marginally aware of the fact, yes." But then she was deepening the kiss, holding onto him tightly. He wrapped his arms about her, holding her to himself, and she managed a shred of jealousy for the box of matches still in his pocket. "For your own part, you're not entirely terrible."  
"No?"  
"You're… tolerable."  
"Well. Aren't you the love poet?"  
"Oh, hush." She quieted him with another kiss, hoping it could say all the things she still didn't have words for. Outside, the night was quiet, the fresh air light under the navy sky.


	7. With a scream

"I don't see why you care so much!"  
"I don't care!" She punctuated the statement by a shove, knocking him back a step.  
"Fine, if you want to be a child about it, that's fine." He waved the papers in the air, equal parts exasperated and exhausted. "Pardon me for, oh, I don't know, caring about your opinion!"  
"I don't see why you would bother! I don't care!"  
"Evidently!" But then she was slamming the kitchen door in his face, and even if he wanted to, he couldn't let it drop.

"No!" storming in, he let the door bang open, "You do NOT slam doors in my face!"  
"Since when?" Turning to face him, she stood stiff, her arms crossed. Didn't he have sense enough to leave her alone?  
"I told you I'd take it out if it bothers you so much!"  
"I'm not bothered!"  
"You are LITERALLY only hurting yourself here!"  
"What, are you offended I'm not more jealous?"  
"Jealous? We've moved past jealous into enraged. Jealous would be much more reasonable! I could work with jealous!"  
"Well I'm not! You do whatever the hell you want!"  
"Oh my g- It's just a script!"  
"A script which YOU wrote."  
"No, not me, i-"  
"Sorry, not you, whatever fucking alias you're using for this one!"  
"Language." The corners of his mouth turned down, still finding the time to reprimand her. "I asked if it was going to be an issue, and if it's not-"  
"It isn't! I genuinely do not see why you would possibly think I'd have an issue with it."  
"Well now you're just overdoing it. Seriously? It's just a play. It doesn't mean anything."  
"Of course it doesn't! God, you're so stupid!"  
"Fine, you know what? I'm keeping it in. If you're so OBVIOUSLY unperturbed by it, then it won't be a problem!"  
"Fine!"  
"Fine!"

They stood in silence, neither one looking at the other.  
"It's shitty writing anyway," she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.  
"EXCUSE me?"  
"I said, it's shitty writing! You're a bad writer!" Her finger jabbed at his chest. He scowled, irritated beyond belief.  
"Oh, because you could do so much better?"  
"I could! Who even talks like that? God, if the audience isn't already nauseous from watching you makeout with someone on stage, this dialogue will put them under for sure!"  
"That-" he gestured with his finger, trying to keep his anger coherent, "is uncalled for!"  
"Oh, and I'm the oversensitive one? You're the one throwing a hissy fit over an honest critique!"  
"You're not being honest nor fair!"  
"What can I say, maybe you're a bad influence after all."  
"Look," he held his hands out in surrender, "I'll take it out. All you have to do is say you want me to."  
"I! Don't! Care! I'm just trying to keep you from embarrassing yourself. It sounds like you've never met a woman in your life! I mean, honestly," snatching the papers from his hand, she began to read aloud, "'Now that I know you exist, how could I ever survive without you?' What the hell is that? No self-respecting woman would ever say that!"  
"Maybe they would, if they weren't so impossibly callous."  
"Callous!"  
He shrugged, "I'm only speaking hypothetically. If you choose to take offense to that-"  
"Okay, then what about this," she jabbed at the paper irately, "explain just what the hell this is supposed to be."  
"It's a love scene."  
"It's something, alright. 'You tremble beneath my hand like a shivering mollusk?' Honestly, who talks like that?"  
"Don't be mad simply because you don't have the soul of a poet!"  
"Oh my god," she shook her head. "If you're gonna exploit loopholes in our marriage, at least have the dignity to do it right!"  
"It's a play, it doesn't mean anything!"  
"But you wrote it!" She slammed the script down on the counter, "You sat up all night and imagined how it would feel to sleep with another woman, wrote it down, terribly, I might add, and plan on sharing it with everyone while I sit there trying very hard not to look like an idiot while you make out with some lady on stage!"  
"So it DOES bother you?"  
"Yes it bothers me!" She lifted her hands up, exasperated, "It bothers me so damn much! It bothers me that you are so much more concerned with how things look for you that I can go to hell so long as I make you look good while doing it!"  
"It's not that deep-"  
"No, it's not! That's the problem. You're so fucking vain, anything beyond an inch of depth puts you out of your league. You want to kiss women on stage? Fucking whatever. Just write something better than a Shakespearean porno opening."  
"You think it sounds like Shakespeare?"  
"I think that you're an incomprehensible idiot!"  
"Watch it!"  
"No, it's okay, I'm a fucking idiot too! I should have known better than to love a man who's more in love with his ego than me." She slammed the papers against his chest. Catching them in his hands, he looked at her quietly. She took a shattering breath in, gritting her teeth. Feeling rather awkward, he cleared his throat.  
"Do you really think I wrote a play just to cheat on you?"  
"I don't know. Maybe," she shrugged, not meeting his eyes, "I've never pretended to understand you."  
"No offense, but if I wanted to cheat on you, I would just do it. Do you think writing plays is easier than just kissing someone?"  
"With dialogue like that? Yes."  
"That's cruel."  
"It's true."  
Stepping forward, he caught her face between his hands, brushing her hair back, "You're impossible, you know."  
"Hey, I-"  
"No, it's okay. I like my women difficult."  
"Not the line to use right now."  
He laughed, amused at her irritation. "Do you really think I would be so unkind?"  
"Yes."  
"Poor Violet, so mistreated by her unkind husband." Still smiling, he kissed her forehead. "It would be poetic though, wouldn't it? Using theater both to catch and leave you?"  
She scoffed, "Maybe you should write a play about that instead."  
"Maybe." He paused, quiet. "I can't believe you think my play is bad."  
"Well, it's not IRREDEEMABLE, persay. It's just… not good."  
"You wound me, Countess."  
"You deserved it."  
"Perhaps I did." Amused, he kissed her lips. "Although, in the future, may I recommend just admitting your infatuations? It would save us both a lot of time."  
"Infatuation might be too strong a word."  
"Obsession? Adoration? Passion?"  
"You're pushing your luck."  
"Let's see how far it takes me then." Smiling, he kissed her again, leaving the script forgotten behind in the light of her favor.


	8. As a thank you and apology

"I'm FINE."  
"Nope," she pushed at his back, trying to steer him back upstairs, "you most certainly are not."  
"I don't see what you're so upset about. It's not-" his protest was interrupted with a hacking cough.  
"It absolutely is, and I will not have you germing up my nice clean house."  
"I'm not even sick."  
"Then you won't mind taking a day off anyway."  
"I'm not-" but then she was shoving him into the bedroom, a woman determined, and he knew there was no point in arguing. "Fine. If you want to do all the work yourself, be my guest."  
"Sounds good. Now please, try to get some sleep."  
"If anything at all happens, you come and get me."  
"What's going to happen? I swear, you're so paranoid." Tugging off his jacket, she pushed him towards the bed.  
"Will you at least bring me food? I might as well get something out of this."  
"Sure. Just, please. Stay put."  
"If you insist," he clicked his tongue, more amused than annoyed.

She didn't become worried until it became two hours since she'd last heard from him. Usually his silence indicated some sort of nefarious plot, and now she was worried he had actually managed to sneak out. However, when she came up, food in hand, she found him pale and sweating in a shallow sleep. He awoke when she carefully set the mug on the table beside him.  
"Violet," he whispered.  
"Yes?"  
"I'm dying."  
"You're not dying." Lightly, she pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. "You have a fever, but you're not dying."  
"I've been poisoned."  
"You've not been poisoned."  
"After everything, this is how it ends."  
"Okay, actor man." She handed him a glass of water, "Here, drink this."  
"And so I go," he closed his eyes, his voice low and hoarse. "Not with a bang but a whimper."  
"Alright. I'll go pick up some cough medicine. Try to drink that entire glass by the time I'm back. Do you want anything else?"  
"Whiskey."  
"Not whiskey."  
"You can't refuse a dying man his last wish."  
Not bothering to respond, she opened the window, letting in some fresh air, "If you're up to it, take a cold shower. It'll make you feel better."  
"You're a terrible nurse."  
"Something tells me you're an even worse patient."  
"I crave the release of death."  
"Okay, I'll be back." She patted his head placatingly, shutting the door quiet behind her.

He could not remember the last time he had been so horribly inconvenienced. He was a busy man; he didn't have time to get sick. Quarantined to his own sweaty solitude, the minutes ticked into hours. Eternities flew by, dizzy and achy timeless expanses. He didn't know it was possible for your very bones to ache.  
It had finally caught up with him; every single terrible thing he had ever done ever, and now he was paying the price. Damn her for leaving him in this state. It was as if she didn't even care. Maybe he would die, just to show her. Then she'd be sorry. His revenge fantasy easily turned over to a daydream about her as a more sympathetic nurse, crying over his lowly state, stroking his face and remarking upon how very very brave he was. He closed his eyes, the pressure in his head pounding against his skull.  
When he opened them again, the light had moved across the walls. It took him a moment to realize he had been sleeping, for all the good it had done him; he was just as tired and groggy as before. Looking over, he saw her placing some more things on his bedside table.  
"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. How are you feeling?"  
He shrugged feebly, forcing out a weak cough.  
"Well, I'm glad to see you've fended off death thus far. Here, sit up," pulling at his shoulder, she managed to get him somewhat less horizontal. "Take this."  
"What is it?"  
"It'll bring your fever down." She dropped a white pill into his hand.  
"I'd much prefer a cyanide capsule."  
"I'm sure you would." Handing him the glass of water, she stared at him until he successfully swallowed it. "And let me get this, you've sweat clean through it." She tugged at his shirt, snapping the buttons open and pulling it over his shoulders. Grateful for the cool air, he lay back down, exhausted and dizzy but mostly embarrassed at being so entirely undone.  
"I'm not helpless, you know."  
"I'm aware."  
"I'm still a lethal force."  
"Of course."  
"I can handle myself."  
"I know."  
He almost felt bad for being so irritable, but it was utterly beyond his control. His own body was conspiring against him. He heard her move a few more things around and then she cleared her throat quietly, touching his arm lightly.  
"Alright then. If you need anything-"  
"Wait," he caught her wrist, holding her beside him. "Can you stay?"  
There was a moment's pause before she responded. "Sure." The mattress sank beside him as she perched on the edge, stroking her fingers over his hair, "Should I just be quiet, or?"  
"No, keep talking." His voice was more mutter than speech. "It's nice."  
"Do you want me to read to you? I mean, I can, if you want."  
"That depends. Do you have anything good?"  
"I absolutely do." He heard her shuffling things around once more and then, settling gently, she began to read aloud, her free hand still stroking his hair, "Miss Adela Strangeworth stepped daintily along Main Street on her way to the grocery. The sun was shining, the air was fresh and clear after the night's heavy rain-"  
"Wait, wait," he stopped her, "are you sure this is good? Because it sounds like it's gearing up to be absolutely awful."  
"Trust me," he could hear the smile in her voice, "it's good."  
"Alright. But if it's boring, that's on you."

"A risk I'm willing to take." Clearing her throat, she began again where she had left off. "Let's see… The air was fresh and clear after the night's heavy rain, and everything in Miss Strangeworth's little town looked washed and bright."  
"Violet?"  
She sighed, "It won't get any better if you don't let me get anywhere."  
"No, it's not that. I just… love you, is all."  
Smiling, she stroked his forehead, brushing his hair back. "Feeling guilty about yelling at me?"  
"Somewhat. But mostly I just thought you should know, since this is the end and all."  
"Oh, of course. Should I continue?"  
"Please." Closing his eyes again, he let her carry on.

It was well into the night by the time he awoke next. She was still beside him, her finger tucked between the pages of the book where she had left off. The silly girl had fallen asleep in her clothes. Quiet as he could manage, he sat up, pulling her shoes off for her. She stirred, groaning awake.  
"What time is it?"  
"Late."  
Rubbing at her eyes, she sighed, "How are you feeling?"  
"Pretty terrible. I'll survive, though."  
"Glad to hear it. God, why is it so hot in here?"  
Smirking, he reclined again, pressing a kiss to her forehead before pausing, pulling back ever so slightly, "Violet?"  
"Yes?"  
"You might want these," reaching over her, he guiltily handed her the bottle of pills.  
She sighed, "Perfect."  
"I love you."  
"I know, I know."  
He kissed her forehead again, her flushed skin hot beneath his lips, "Anything I can do to make it up to you?"  
"Here," smirking, she handed him the book, settling against his shoulder, "you can take a turn."  
"Fair enough." Leaning his cheek against the top of her head, he waited for her settle, and then as softly as he could manage, he picked up right where they had left off.


	9. In a letter

My Treacherous Heart,  
My Unkind Darling,  
Mine,  
Maybe I'm writing this too late. Maybe you'll never read it. Or maybe you'll read it, tear it up, and resolve to forget the whole matter. Honestly, that seems the most likely and I wouldn't necessarily blame you, though I will be thoroughly upset if you don't even give me the justice of reading this through to the end. Although, maybe justice is misplaced here. Maybe that's the point.  
I've only just started and already there are too many "what-if's" for any person to stomach. God, what else could we have done differently? Because, after giving it thought, and believe me, I have given you way more thought than is due to the situation, I have come to the conclusion, that no, it was not because of something that I could have done. It was something that we should have done. And yes, I know this is not making any sense at all, but bare with me.  
In the end, I suppose it really was inevitable. That's strange to think, that we were always heading towards this? Like passengers in a car, unaware that while they're worried about the bridge collapsing, a bomb is ready to go off beneath their feet. It's a loose metaphor, but let's be honest; nothing ever fits us.  
I'm sorry if this becomes longer than I intended. I've always been very good at dancing around words I didn't want to say, and so long as I have the incentive of your attention, I'm going to hold it. It doesn't matter that you, more likely than not, will not care about a thing I have to say. I have plenty to say and damn it, I'm going to say it all, but first I'm going to talk circles until I am certain what I am saying is true.  
That was always the heart of the matter, wasn't it? That was always our problem. After a while, truth ceases to be the large, upstanding ideal that you were always raised to believe it was, and that's terrifying. So no, I do not blame you for the choices you made in the shadow of such a realization. I don't sympathize, and I certainly still believe that you're irrefutably and irrevocably wrong, but that's the thing about it. Most of it is based off of what it isn't. Maybe that's the heart of truth; slicing away everything that isn't. I know that as of late, that's what I've become. Everything I was, thinly sliced to remove every touch of you. Sometimes I wonder if there is any part of me left. And then I think, of course there is, don't be ridiculous. If I could ask for any parting gift, it would be a map back to who I was before you. I don't want to be a me that exists post-you. There's too much negative space.  
And maybe that was also part of the problem. Preoccupation with what is and isn't. Maybe if we had open sky and the depth of space we could have lived parallel lives, watching each other but never touching, but no. We came out of the same dirt, the same mess, tangled like weeds desperate to strangle one another for a bit more of the light. And I know you'd say that's heavy handed, but I also know that you know it's true. We became too good at destruction, too well-versed in our eject buttons, always desperate to be in a space that wasn't here, wasn't this.  
And all of this isn't to say that it's anybody's fault. I mean, it certainly is, but that's not what this letter is for. This letter isn't even for you, so just know that if you're picturing me sallow and pining, you are absolutely wrong.  
I'm not writing this for you. I'm not writing it for me either, really. I don't know why I'm writing it, other than it needs to be written and I don't know who else could listen. I don't think you'll understand because even I don't understand, but I believe you have a better chance of understanding than anyone.  
But what if everything had been different? I know it's a pointless question, but it's the one I keep getting stuck on. There are too many small things to pull apart, too many microinteractions to untangle. I find it much neater to just scrap it all and say "What if everything had been different?"  
What if we had met somewhere else, under different circumstances, long ago? Do you think you could have loved me had we been members of a Pharaoh's court? What if we resided high upon the mountains, ages away from the nearest city? If you had met me in ancient Greece, would you love me then?  
I cannot help but think that no matter where we met, I would not be able to stand your presence; the universe is pulling us together too tightly. I do not like the idea of loving you, but I don't seem to have much of a choice, wherever it is history sees fit to drop us.  
I've been reading more Greek tragedies lately. You would like them. So much darkness. Maybe I'm being pretentious, but it seems like we might have some things in common with them. That's the definition of pretentious, isn't it? Comparing ones' selves to gods? But if anyone deserves it, Darling, we do. We've earned the right to become gods. We've earned the right to infamy, whether we want it or not. I'd like to think that we earned a happy ending, but I know us; it was never in the cards.  
And maybe that's why we burned out so bright; it's no wonder we went blind. They say love is supposed to be blind, but how much worse would it be if we could see ourselves, could see what we became before it was too late? I wish I could say I never actually loved you, that I always wanted this, but it isn't true. I loved you, as terribly dangerous as it was; as ill-planned and inadvisable, I loved you. I'd like to think that this letter isn't of any comfort, that no matter how bad we became, you didn't like it any better than I did. But then again, maybe you like knowing that I was hurt. Maybe it's better if no one is blameless. The worst thing, I think, would to be able to point fingers, to say "Here; this is where it unraveled. This is where it hurts." But us? We were born frayed. We couldn't have stopped it even if we wanted to. (Did you want to? Sometimes it was hard to tell.)  
If you haven't burned this letter yet, I only began it because I wanted to apologize, but exclusively for the things I shouldn't apologize for. I'd hate to ruin my track record. So this is a blanket apology for every single time I poured your wine, touched your hand, shared the blankets at night. I'm sorry I became a person who could love you; I never meant to do it. Believe me.  
I hope this finds you well enough. Please don't write back.  
Please.


	10. When baking chocolate chip cookies

"No, you actually have to measure it!"  
"It's fine." He threw the pile of brown sugar into the bowl.  
"Oh my god." She leaned back, a hand covering her mouth. "You are. SO bad at this."  
"Shhhhhhhhh," he shushed her, waving an arm in her general direction. "You're bad at it."  
"I absolutely am not." She refilled her wine glass, almost missing altogether.  
"Yes you are. You never do it right."  
"Yes I do! Cooking is just like science. I'm good at it."  
"You're good at cooking," straightening up, he faced her, "absolute SHIT at baking though."  
"Fine then. I am NOT helping!" On her third try, she managed to jump up and sit on the counter.  
"Well, are you ready to have your mind absolutely blown?" He finished off his own glass, quickly replenishing it from the open bottle.  
"By your baking?"  
"Yes!"  
"Absolutely. I cannot wait."

Elated and buzzed, she swung her legs back and forth, watching his best efforts at measuring.  
"We should add wine to the mix!"  
"No," she shook her head, "it'll cook out. No good."  
"Clever girl. I like that." He gestured towards her with a spoon and she laughed again, amused by the slight stumble in his stance.  
"Are you almost done?"  
"Quiet! I am concentrating on mixing!"  
"It looks lumpy."  
"It's supposed to look like that."  
"Nothing I have made has ever looked like that."  
"Because you make it wrong!"  
"These are going to be so strange. I can't wait."  
"Prepare to have your tastebuds MYSTIFIED!"  
"That… might actually be accurate.  
"Mixing is harder than I thought it would be."  
"Here, let me try." Taking the bowl from him, she began to stir in uneven circles. "Oh my god, mixing this is awful."  
"I told you!"  
"Okay, hear me out," looking up at him purposefully, she tried to hold his stare. "What if we made it like bread?"  
"Pardon?"  
"What if. Instead of using a spoon. We kneaded it?"  
"I will pay actual money to watch you try to knead dough."  
"Then get ready to pay up." Hesitantly, she began to push her way down from the counter. Catching an arm around her waist, he helped her, making sure she didn't drop the bowl. Handing it off to him, she washed her hands twice in the sink, drying them on a clean towel.

"Okay, are you ready?"  
"I am so ready for this." Leaning back, he took a drink from his glass. After a moment of thought, she pressed both hands into the mixture, mixing it as best she could.  
"Wow, you really did a number on this."  
"Wait, wait! Freeze, right there." He held his hands out, gesturing for her to stop.  
"Why? What's wrong?"  
"Shh shh shh," he kept his finger up, staring at her intently in an elongated silence. "Okay, got it."  
"What are you doing?"  
"Commiting the image to memory."  
"Oh my god, you jerk," smirking, she lobbed a bit of dough at him.  
"Hey!" He stepped back, "Don't ruin the suit. It's new."  
"So you wore it baking?"  
"I didn't exactly PLAN for my evening to end up here."  
"Well, you know what they say about the best laid plans."  
"No, what do they say?"  
Pausing, she stared down at the bowl vacantly. "I… don't remember."  
A heavy silence lingered in the air until, unable to contain it, he burst into laughter. Looking rather surprised, she began to laugh too. "Look what you've done to me! Look! I have dough on my hands and I can't remember quotes!" She held up her hands for him to inspect more closely.  
"Truly no one has ever sank so low."  
"No," she smirked, holding her hands close to herself as he leaned in to kiss her, his fingers leaving a smudge of flour on her cheek.


	11. As a whisper in the ear

Curling over her waist, his hand tightened against her hip, pulling her to himself. She didn't mind, of course-it was more of an annoyance than anything; just another way for him to prolong whatever it was she was trying to get done.  
"You need something?"  
"Always," he smirked, keeping her tight to his side, no doubt trying to show off again. He never got tired of it, never stopped. He was ridiculous, really. Imperceptibly lightly, his fingers brushed at her, pressing into her side one by one.  
The party, if you could call it that, had been going on for awhile, and everyone was already plenty drunk. He himself was surprisingly sober, only having finished half a bottle of wine, which he now placed down on the table, falling back into his chair. Ployingly, he tugged at her, pulling her along with him.  
"Doing alright?" she let him maneuver her, balancing lightly against his leg.  
"Quite." Taking her hand, he kissed the back of it, once more wrapping his arm about her waist, letting his hand rest against her upper thigh. Doing a very good impression of a man distracted by his guests, he looked off, discreetly pulling her further into his lap under the guise of balance.

"Feeling affectionate, are we?"  
He didn't have to look at her face to know that behind the glass she was using as cover, she was smirking.  
"I hardly think I can be accused of such things."  
"Something else then?"  
"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about." His words were a murmur as he slid a hand up her thigh, pressing it to her stomach, leaning her back against him until she was pressed flat to his chest. Neither looked directly towards the other as they spoke, their words coming out low, under their breath.

"Not at all. I'm just trying to enjoy a nice evening with company." The dulcet whisper of his voice against the side of her face sent shivers down her back.  
"Well, aren't you the good host."  
"I would be better if it weren't for all the distractions."  
"Distractions?"  
"Of course. Have you seen what the hostess is wearing?"  
"It was a gift from you, idiot."  
"Exactly." Innocently, he brushed at the edge of her skirt as if to remove a speck of dust, instead succeeding in running his fingers along the length of her leg. Only the slightest twitch of her hand betrayed her nerves, causing him to smile. Sighing nonchalantly, he brought his hand to rest on her thigh as if he only happened to let it land there. Equally casually, she brushed her fingers against the back of his neck, causing static to run down his spine.  
"Maybe you should have thought of that."  
"I did. It wasn't a very good plan, I suppose."  
"That's too bad. You're usually so good at those."  
"Plans?"  
"Yes. Speaking of which, is there anything left for tonight, or am I more or less excused from my hostess duties?"  
"Yes and no. No, there's nothing left, but also, no, we're not quite done for the evening."  
"Oh? What do you have in mind?"  
"I was thinking we let them finish drinking themselves into a stupor," his fingers pressed against her leg ever so slightly as he kissed the side of her head, "and then you let me lay you out and make you see god."  
"That's a bit pretentious, don't you think?"  
"Not if it's true."  
She laughed, a quiet hum of a laugh, tilting her head back so that he could better hear her, "And what if I don't want to be laid out?"  
"Pardon?"  
"What if I have a different plan?"  
"You are speaking to the planning expert of course, but I'll humor you. What were you thinking?"  
"We finish the bottle of wine, let them leave, and then," she tilted her head to the side, her eyes low and dark, "you get me out of this dress, get flat on your back, and we see how long it takes before you're yelling my name."  
Hiding a toothy smile by planting a kiss beneath her ear, he hummed contemplatively, "Not bad. Want to bet I can get you blaspheming before you get me to say your name?"  
"You're on."  
"I look forward to it. My favorite sort of challenge; one I can't lose."  
"Are you really so cocky?"  
"Even in the unlikely event that I do not win, I must say," he nipped at her quickly, carefully, "you're one hell of a consolation prize."

"You're ridiculous."  
"And oh-so in love with you." Leaning in, he pressed a kiss to her jaw, his words rough in her ear, "Dangerously in love with you."  
"Alright then." She could hear that the pitch of her voice was just a bit too strained, comically pinched, and yet there was nothing she could do about it.  
"Madly and stupidly and ridiculously in love with you." A smirk was buried in his tone, his lips warm against her neck, whispering the words in a low rumble that even she could just barely hear.  
"Okay, okay. Save some for later."  
"Clever Violet. My lethal weapon of a wife."  
"Watch yourself; you're going to make a scene. And if they don't, I will."  
"It's alright, they all think we're drunk." As if to prove his point, he plucked the bottle from the table, taking a swig with a shrug. She smiled, finally looking at him, taking the still somewhat-full bottle from his hands.  
"Cheers, then. Here's to always winning."  
"Now that is a toast, and hostess, I can get behind."  
She rolled her eyes but took the drink anyway, even letting him kiss her in front of his men afterwards, not particularly caring about anything that wasn't the stain of the wine on his lips or the pressure of his hand against her thigh as he held her, secure and certain and perhaps only the slightest bit drunk after all.


	12. On a post-it note

After a while she had stopped finding and reminding him, deciding he was adult enough to handle his own affairs. Thus, when he went to the cabinet to grab a bottle, he instead had found a yellow note in its place, folded neatly in half to stand up upon the shelf. "All out—send someone for some more." The next day he had left two new bottles upon the counter for her to put away, and thus the system was born. It really was helpful; he had a habit of distracting her so that by the time she remembered what it was she had to tell him, it was much too late and generally more of a hassle. Even when she managed to remember, he'd often forget, becoming needlessly irritated, even more so than usual. It was a simple idea, and it worked well.  
The only issue came about when, needed to give her reminders, he found he didn't have as easy a place to put them. Occasionally she'd find them on the bathroom mirror, sometimes in her workroom, once in the coffee pot. He'd stack them over her favorite wines, inside her drawers, on her pillow. The amount of effort he put into it almost defeated the purpose, but so long as he wasn't complaining, she certainly had no reason too.  
His notes had also started simple, ("Bad. Do not buy again," "Torn. Needs mending," "Blood stain on favorite shirt. Please remove") but over time they escalated into more vague rambling snippets, as if she didn't hear enough of his thoughts as is. She'd find papers everywhere, bookmarks of his thoughts; "Don't wear the green dress tonight. Worked too well last time," "My clothes go in my closet, thief," or, her personal favorite, "If you get another library late fee I will sell you to them." It was almost overwhelming, realizing how many times he thought about her during the day. Even as the system became habit and both of them ceased thinking about it, she still enjoyed finding them, never knowing what it would be. Some of them were more subtle than others ("Wear less black" versus "Only wear the red dress if you plan on having enough time to be thoroughly ravished beforehand") but all were undeniably him. They were quick, to the point, never taking more than a fragment or two to say what they had to.  
Her own notes followed suit, the occasional thought or opinion interjecting her reminders ("You have to EARN the red dress. Restock the wine for tonight," "Fixed your shirt. You should wear this more often if you don't want me to take it.") More than once she'd simply replied directly on his note, should the request be simple or ridiculous enough.  
When they talked, neither of them mentioned them, as if the notes were a separate conversation all to themselves. She began using them as bookmarks, particularly the one telling her off for having spent so much time reading as of late, but other than that she either tossed them or let the particularly funny ones clutter up her drawer. She wasn't sure what he did with hers, but they were never around for longer than it took him to find them.

Cleaning the bedroom was a far more intimidating task than it ought to be. She knew he kept things tucked away, but mostly it was a clutter of space-wasters, stacks of books, half-forgotten clothes. By the time she got to under the bed, she had already found five knives and three of her sweaters, all of which he had particularly disliked, which he had sworn had gone missing. The bastard. Peering under the bed she found an unexpected amount of socks, too many papers for one person to reasonable read through, and perhaps countless boxes. Slowly, she began pulling things out, checking them over briefly enough to figure out where they go. Pulling the lid off the first box, she found a collection of cardboard matches from various locations. The second held a pair of shoes he had bought her which she had refused to wear. It was the third box which surprised her, though. I'm the third box was seemingly every note she had ever written. She, mocking his penchant for signing his notes with a dotted O, had begun to replicate his signature, drawing an off-kilter dotted V. Almost every single note was signed, making them unmistakably hers. The bastard man had actually kept them. Sure, she had kept his, but his were unwittingly funny; there was no real reason to hold onto her reminders and bribes. Shuffling through them some more, she caught herself smiling, grinning stupidly. Shutting the box, she shoved it back beneath the bed, choosing to leave it alone. The man was so vain; he'd probably die if he knew he had gotten caught.  
She was still smiling as she finished the rest of her work for the day, still stupidly glad. Even as the day wore into night, she carried a small happiness inside of her, making her light enough to leave a note upon the bathroom mirror as he took his shower, telling him to come back downstairs immediately, where she would be waiting for him with a fresh bottle of wine and a very red dress.


	13. While we fought in the car

"Seriously, what the FUCK is wrong with you?"  
"Nothing is wrong, I'm fine." She stared out the window, arms crossed tightly.  
"No, seriously. What the actual FUCK was that about?"  
"So you you can drive after all, huh? Consider me surprised."  
"Don't change the subject!"  
"Am I wrong, though? Name the last time you drove."  
"This isn't about me! I am not what we are discussing."  
"Maybe if we're lucky you'll crash."  
"Pardon?"  
"I didn't say anything. Just leave me alone!"  
"Okay, you know what?" Turning all too sharply, he pulled off the road.  
"You can't stop here!"  
"Genuinely, what the actual HELL were you thinking?" She clicked her tongue, turning away from him. "Hey! We are not leaving until you answer the damn question!"  
"Oh, because I'M the one who-"  
"NO. No. Listen! I am asking, nay, BEGGING you to at least TRY to explain what the hell you were doing, because for the life of me I cannot figure it out!"  
"What does it matter? Nothing bad happened, I'm fine!"  
"Damnit, Violet!" He slammed his hands against the steering wheel, pulling her out of her sulking reverie. His knuckles were white as he stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched. "Answer the damn question!"

"I just had some things I needed to take care of." Her voice was so small. For the first time since he'd gotten her into the car, she let slip just how afraid she was. Good. She should be afraid. The girl was a damn idiot.  
"What things?" He forced the words out, desperately trying as hard as he could to keep his tone even.  
She fidgeted in his periphery, "Just… Stuff. Things."  
"Stuff?" He couldn't hide the incredulous anger from his voice. "Stuff? You wandered nearly thirty miles for STUFF?"  
"I didn't wander, I took a cab."  
"Oh thank GOD! You didn't walk, you were in a car with a stranger! And to think, I was worried over nothing!"  
"That's how cabs work," she muttered. He elected to ignore her snark.  
"What was so goddamn important that you had to sneak away and couldn't tell me? Hmm? What was so incredibly enticing?"  
"I'm an adult, you know!"  
"Then fucking act like one!" For the first time since he'd picked her up, they made eye contact. The anger he saw in her expression was chilling, making ice of his marrow.  
"It's none of your business! I didn't ask you to come along!"  
"You're right. You weren't even that fucking smart! Luckily, I am a very clever man and managed to come get you anyway. You're welcome!"  
"I didn't want you to chase after me!"  
"Well, it's too fucking late now, isn't it?"  
"Why can't you just leave me alone?"  
"Why can't you take some goddamn responsibility and at least BEGIN to explain yourself?"  
The silence was steely, heavy and oppressive. Crossing her arms, she glared out the window again. Sensing this was going nowhere, and really just wanting to be home, he started the engine again, pulling back onto the road.  
They rode in silence for a while before she finally shattered the quiet with another angry mutter, "You should have just left me."  
"You shouldn't have run away."  
"I would have come back."  
"Would you?"  
He had meant the statement solely as a barbing act of cruelty, but got more than he bargained for when instead of shouting back, she fell to a guilty silence.

"Oh my god." She could see his eyes widen, his countenance more offended than anything, but then the emotion quickly dissolved into a muted hurt that was somehow worse.  
"I didn't say-"  
"Yeah, okay."  
"I didn't mean-"  
"Yes you did."  
"You're jumping to conclusions!"  
"Okay." He didn't resist, didn't push back. His resignation was infinitely worse, stinging in the worst of ways, and even more horrid, she actually cared.  
"Wait, just listen!"  
"Okay. I'm listening." He continues to stare straight ahead, only acknowledging her through his words.  
"I…" she faltered, not having expected compliance. "I don't actually have anything to say."  
"Okay then." He shrugged nonchalantly.  
"This wasn't what I was planning, you know!"  
"What were you planning?" His cool cadence burned at her skin.  
"I don't know." The words seemed so silly, but they were true.  
"You don't know?" He cocked his eyebrow, still keeping his eyes on the road. "You were going to run away without a plan?"  
"I wasn't running away! I was only going to be gone as long as I had to!"  
"I see."  
"No, you don't!"  
"No, I do. It's fine." Making a left, he pulled sharply into a parking lot, stopping the car. "You could have at least been smart about it. Train station, one block that way," he gestured. "Hell of a lot safer for unaccompanied women."  
Surprising even herself, she hesitated. It wasn't like she had wanted to go so much as she had needed to. She hadn't been ready to burn this bridge, but now he was handing her the gasoline.  
"You want me to go?"  
"I would like to not have to worry about you getting murdered because you were stupid enough to hitchhike."  
"That wasn't the question."  
"Why bother asking? This isn't about me."  
"Fine then."  
"Fine."

They sat in silence, both staring straight ahead, neither one willing to make the first move. Taking in a deep breath, she spoke in a shaky voice, "If you don't care, why bother coming after me?"  
"I never said I didn't care. I just said I'd prefer it if you died at the hands of something other than your own stupidity."  
"Then I'll go."  
"If that's what you want."  
She fidgeted with her fingers, twisting at them, "I only meant to get a few answers."  
"And then what? Were you ever going to tell me what happened, or was it more of a later dramatic reveal sort of scenario?"  
"Neither. I just wanted answers."  
"To what questions?"  
"Does it matter?"  
"Depends on the questions."  
Once again they lapsed into awkward silence, neither one daring to look at the other.  
"You're mad at me."  
"I'm not mad at you," he sighed.  
"That's a lie."  
"Yeah, well. Me being pissed won't help right now."  
"Can't it?"  
"Pardon?"  
"I don't know, don't you think that maybe you should be a little more upset? Not dropping me off at train stations?"  
"I know you well enough to know that you're unstoppable. If you want to leave, you will."  
She hesitated, a hand on the door handle, "You making it so easy is almost offensive."  
"Sorry for hurting your feelings, Darling." Glancing at the floor, he frowned, "Wait, where are your bags?"  
"Bags?"  
"Everything you're bringing with you?"  
"I don't have anything."  
"You don't-" now he did turn to face her, incredulous. "You don't have anything?"  
"No. I wouldn't need it."  
"Oh my g- You are just. Fucking unbelievable." Stunned, he found himself on the verge of laughter, "Wait. Just. Let me make sure I've got this right. You were going to leave, with nothing, to potentially get some vague answers about questions you're not even sure of, over an undetermined period of time?"  
"Yes."  
"And what would you do if it all went horribly wrong?"  
She shrugged, looking down, "I'd call you, probably."  
"Oh, yes? You think that'd go over well?"  
"I mean…" she gestured out at the car.  
"Regardless, I just. I can't believe you. God, Violet you're so…"

For a terrifying moment she thought he might actually cry as he brought his hands to his face, shaking shoulders pulled in. However, after half a second, she realized he was laughing.  
Rubbing at his face, he sighed, "Alright. Your jailbreak can wait until later. If you're running away from home, you going to do it right. Let's get you packed." Putting the car back in drive, he pulled out from the lot, back onto the road.  
"Then that's it?" She looked at him, incredulous, "You really don't care?"  
"Who said I didn't care?"  
"You all but shoved me out of the car! It's like you wanted me to go!"  
"I'm not as heuristic as you might think."  
"Please, you practically kicked me out! I'm surprised you even bothered stopping!"  
"Did you ever see me unlock the doors?"  
She paused, thinking it over. "Well that doesn't prove anything."  
"You're right, it doesn't." Sighing he glanced over at her quickly, smoothing his hair back with his hand as he looked back to the road. She looked out the passenger window, feeling impossibly lonely and incredibly stupid. Tears pricked at her eyes. Irritated, she swiped at them with the back of her hand, resenting the weakness.  
With a sigh, he reached out, catching her hand in his own. Without looking away from the street, he brought her hand to his lips, kissing it softly.  
"It's okay. You didn't get hurt. Everyone's fine."  
"Yeah, but-"  
"Later. That can be a problem for later. Right now let's just get home."  
She thought it over quietly, "Okay."  
"Alright," he kissed the back of her hand again, a sad smile playing over his lips. "God, I'm tired. You must be exhausted."  
"A bit."  
"Any chance I can convince you to save the running away for tomorrow? It'll be easier with a good night's sleep."  
"Tomorrow morning?"  
"Morning's no good for me. How about late afternoon?"  
"Isn't tomorrow your dinner?"  
"And?" He cocked his eyebrow.  
She hesitated, looking away self-consciously, "So long as I'm staying late, I might as well stay for that. You could use the help."  
"Alright," he smirked, but to his credit, said nothing further on the subject. "Wednesday then?"  
"Probably."  
He nodded at her solemn pronunciation, "Okay. Although, would you mind if I had one of the women shadow you in the kitchen? You've got a few recipes I don't want to lose."  
"Are you serious?"  
"Of course I'm serious," he shrugged. "If it's too much-"  
"No, I can do that. That's… fine." There was a quiet note of disappointment in her voice.  
"Also," he glanced over at her, "I know it's late and all, but I did make dinner reservations for us on Thursday."  
"Dinner reservations?"  
"By that I mean I bought a particularly large bottle of wine and a few candles. But if you're already going to be gone-"  
"No, I-" she cleared her throat, "I can stay for that. I'll just leave whenever it's convenient, I guess."  
"Alright," he kissed her hand again, holding her finger tight in his own. "We can figure it out later. There's plenty of time still."

They rode in silence for a while longer as she sat, consumed in thought.  
"Not to bring up a touchy subject," he hesitated, unsure, "but once you leave, it's not considered 'cheating,' is it?"  
"Excuse me?" She whipped her head around to look at him, lifting her chin from where it had rested on her hand. The facade of nonchalance was broken as her indignant voice betrayed her, causing him to finally break into a barely-restrained smirk. "Oh, you jerk." She hit his arm with the back of his hand. He laughed then, catching her hand again, tangling his fingers between hers.  
"Oh come now. Surely you can't be so surprised."  
"You're not funny!"  
"I know, I know. Poor Violet, tortured by her cruel husband. No wonder you're running off."  
"That's not-" she stopped, realizing it wasn't worth trying to explain. "Oh, never mind."  
"For someone trying to leave me, you sure reacted quickly."  
"I was simply worried for the next woman."  
"Oh, of course."  
"She'd be put through hell at your hands."  
"I am known for my hellish hands," he shrugged, still holding onto her.  
"Yeah, well. Make sure you're at least upfront about how much trouble you are. You're impossible to keep."  
"Oh, but I'm just so endearing and handsome."  
"Oh my god."  
"The best things in life cause trouble, isn't that so?"  
"I'd have to disagree."  
"Then why are you so much work?"  
"I don't need to be saved, you know."  
"I know. I just like doing it."  
"Any sensible person wouldn't have come."  
"Oh, great: I can't even love sensibly enough for you."  
Their smiling laughter faded into quiet introspection. She turned back to the window, resting her chin upon her hand once again. Fighting the urge to watch her, he simply placed his own hand upon her knee, reassuring himself that, at least in this moment, she was still here.


	14. Not to me

They fought almost as much as they drank. The two events, incidentally, also tended to coincide, one feeding the other until it was all a mess she couldn't do anything about. It wasn't surprising, really; get any group large and monstrous enough and they'll step on each other's toes eventually. Still. Just because it was understandable didn't mean she had to like it. It was absolute hell for her when they fought, loud and indescribably messy, a menagerie of ill-thought words and misplaced threats. What she really wanted was to find a dark room somewhere, cover her ears with her hands, and sit very very still until it all went away. Unfortunately, that would only prolong the hell, as she would undoubtedly find herself dragged out and chastised for her disappearance. Such things were unavoidable.  
This time it had been one of the women who got sore. Violet didn't know what exactly she was upset about, but it hardly mattered; they were all so easily offended, too wrapped up in their own egos. He had snapped his fingers to her, barely looking up as he indicated the empty bottle before him, and so against her better judgement, she now headed back into the lion's den of inequity, liquor in hand.  
He didn't acknowledge Violet as he took the bottle from her hands, lacing an arm around the shrill woman, pressing it to her, "Come, now. It isn't at all what you think."  
"I just don't see how you could possibly give the role to her, after everything we went through last time-"  
"Don't think of it like that. You're practically the star. Come on, you know we can't do it without you. None of the men will be convincing enough."  
Sulkily, she crossed her arms. Violet turned to leave, but without looking, he reached out, pressing a cold hand to her shoulder, "You didn't bring glasses."  
"You didn't ask." Slowly, he turned to look at her, and she rather wished he hadn't. Rolling her shoulder out of his grip, she looked away, muttering that she'd be back. He smiled, a false toothy smile that dug into her gut.  
They had fought before; that wasn't so unusual. Sometimes it was cruel, but it was never too bad, often settled with half-done apologies and some sort of unhappy compromise. But this? This was insurmountable. She was honestly surprised he hadn't just killed her. Evidently, it was what she would have done. The torture of waiting was almost worse, though. It crawled under her skin, kept her awake at night as she stared at the ceiling, trying very hard not to think about the fact that he was only a few steps away, no doubt not thinking of her at all. Or perhaps he was. She wasn't sure which was worse.  
When she returned with the glasses, he snatched them from her hands without a glance, handing one to the still sulking woman.  
"Don't be like that," pausing, he leaned back towards the table, effectively blocking Violet's only exit. "You know you're my favorite."  
"Favorite?" The woman's eyes lit up.  
"You're my best girl. You know I love you."  
It was senseless, but damnit if his words weren't a knife slicing down her sinews, leaving her a gaping fish dangled bloodily for his own pleasure. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, and she knew he had seen the compulsive look of pain on her face from the way he smiled again at the woman.  
"Oh god, fine! You know I can refuse you nothing." The woman smiled as well, loping her hands behind his neck. He caught her waist, thoroughly satisfied.  
"And you know I would never ask you to."  
Not caring about manners anymore, Violet ducked her head down, trying to squeeze past unnoticed. The last thing she wanted was for him to see her cry. She wouldn't give him that. She had no reason to cry after all; it didn't matter, couldn't matter.  
Forsaking her better judgement she glanced back just in time to catch the tableau of the woman laughing at something he had said as he reclined against the table, the picture of a relaxed host, smirking carelessly. He lifted his eyes only long enough to know she was watching, and then, gently, tucked a strand of hair behind the woman's ear.  
Thoroughly eviscerated, Violet made her way to the kitchen, her ringing ears filled with the sound of her own chest breaking, pumping blood rushing to fill the empty space left behind.


	15. The first time, in awe

He was not an easy person to share a bed with. He took up too much space, stole away the blankets, and more often than not, ended up somehow on top of her. He was irritating at best, impossible at worst, and through it all she had to live with the knowledge that this was him on his best behavior. When he was unconscious, he couldn't be terrible, and yet he still found ways to annoy her. It was perfectly maddening.  
After waking up amid a tangle of lanky arms and legs, she'd managed to wriggle her way out to the bathroom, only to come back and find that he'd claimed her spot in her vacancy. Sighing, she precariously climbed back in, shoving at him lightly to get him to move. However, rather than just scoot over, he instead rolled over, slinging an arm about her, trapping her at the edge of the mattress.  
"Are you serious?" she muttered, still shoving at him. The man was a damn sea anemone. Trying a bit harder, she slid her fingers beneath him, trying to roll him the other direction. That plan, however, quickly fell through as he simply sighed in his sleep, using the arm holding her to pull her to his chest. When did he become so strong, she wondered, fighting his grasp. There was no way a man this lanky should have such a strong grip.  
Exhausted, she decided to simply take his side. First, however, she'd need to escape his grasp once again. Not particularly caring anymore if she woke him or not, she tugged her way out in a huff, circling the bed to his side. He didn't move as she laid down, still soundly out. She stared at him for awhile, trying to figure out what the hell could knock any person out so hard, before giving up and rolling onto her side.  
There were a few minutes of peace and then she heard him moving, fumbling. Sighing, she looked over just to see what he was doing. Half awake, he patted the empty bed beside him, glancing around.  
"Over here," she smirked despite herself when, nodding, he turned to his other side, lacing an arm over her waist, tugging her to himself. With a tired sigh, he kissed the top of her head before falling asleep again. His face still in her hair, he twitched, tightening his grip around her waist.  
"Love you too, but I can't breathe," she reprimanded his sleeping form before pausing with a jolt. Slowly, she pulled back far enough to see his face. He remained fast asleep, still holding her in a vice-grip. Frozen, she traced over his features, the dart of his eyes, slight downturn of his lips. Gently, she kissed his cheek, her insides bursting with panicky fear. Her heart racing, she lay back down, staring at the ceiling, wondering what the hell she could do about this new problem. He muttered something in his sleep, his lips brushing against her temple, arm still tight over her stomach.  
"I love you too," she whispered quietly, addressing the dark room, "but I can't breathe."  
She doubted there was room left inside her for breath. He was more irritant than person, impossible and noisy and messy and aggravating and horrible and so very, very gentle in sleep. Closing her eyes, she tried to match her breathing to his, felt the weight of his hand against her side, the soft brush of his lips against her temple, the seam of warmth wherever his body touched hers. He radiated impossibility, was built up of the very concept of her own inabilities. They were completely and utterly incompatible; they cancelled each other out. Hardly daring to move, she rested her cold hand upon his arm, feeling the incandescent heat of his body. He didn't pull away, didn't even stir.  
She had often heard the description of love as being a breathless thing. She hadn't thought they meant this, this wind-knocked-out, living, crawling thing that had invaded her body. This love was a parasite. She turned to look at him again, his sleeping, innocuous form, incapabable of harm so long as he didn't wake. Lying flat on her back, she looked back to the ceiling, wondering how she would ever learn to live with this.  
Uncharacteristically gentle (or, what is characteristically? He couldn't calculate while asleep) he continued to hold her, neverminding every way in which she was now damned. She closed her eyes, forcing air into her lungs until her chest swelled and burned. This was a love she would suffocate on. There was no other way.


	16. While we made out in the car

"This is so juvenile."  
"If you want to stop, we can."  
"No, I just thought someone should address it," she just barely got the words out, her mouth pressed against his. Smiling contentedly, he resumed kissing her, glad and warm and overzealous. His tongue slipped between her lips, pressed against her teeth. Circling his arms behind her, he tried to pull her closer to himself. "Wait, here," she pulled back, breathless, trying unsuccessfully to shift her leg. "No, wait, you need to lean forward."  
"Like this?" He shifted forward on the seat.  
"Yeah, perfect," she stretched her leg behind him, catching him effectively between her thighs. Sitting up, he smacked his head on the roof, causing her to laugh.  
"Oh, fuck- Sorry, it's not funny- Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Luckily, the only thing injured was his pride. Unsuccessfully, he tried to swavely lean forward to kiss her again, succeeding instead in only awkwardly leering over her. "Can you scoot down?"  
"Yeah, just-" her head rested awkwardly against the side of the car, craning her neck at a weird angle. "Nope. This is no good."  
"Fuck it. Just get in my lap."  
"So direct," she lifted her knees, letting him slide his legs beneath hers until he was firmly situated between her thighs, her back pressed to the window. "I like it."  
"What can I say? I'm a man who knows what he wants."  
"Yes, but it usually takes you so much longer to say it."  
He frowned, but then she was kissing him and it was alright. She could say whatever she wanted so long as she kept kissing him.  
Slowly, he ran his hands up her thighs, tucking them beneath her skirt. She sighed happily, lacing her arms behind his neck, pulling him closer. Complying, he tugged at her hips, kissing along her throat. Whimpering, she caught her lip between her teeth as his fingers wandered to her inner thigh, teasing her in small, gentle circles.  
"Shit," she whispered, her breathless voice pooling warm within him.  
"Language. My god, who taught you to speak like that? You're supposed to be a good girl."  
"Yeah, okay, alright. You can call me 'good' all you want, so long as you keep kissing me like I'm not."  
"Fair trade." He smirked, nipping at the skin along her jaw. She whined again, her hips pressing upwards into his touch. Taking pity, he slid his fingers against her over her underwear.  
"Shit, Olaf!" Sitting up, she grabbed his face, pulling him back.  
"Not okay?"  
"Too okay. Much too okay." Her face was flushed as she craned her neck, looking out the window. "What if someone sees?"  
"Let them watch."  
"I'm serious!"  
"You're adorable when scared." Pulling her tight to himself, he kissed her again.  
"You're getting carried away."  
"What can I say? I'm a man with ambition."  
"Is that what they're calling it now?"  
"Watch your tone," kissing her mouth, he pushed his tongue to her teeth, elated when she opened her lips for him. She folded into his touch, gently pushing back, still cautiously guarded. He brushed his hand over her thigh again, tucking it beneath her skirt, between her legs.  
"Olaf!" her voice was a nervous whisper.  
"Let me worry about all that. We're just two people, having a conversation. Totally innocent." He tucked his fingers beneath her underwear, feeling her grip tighten against his neck, her face pressing to his. "Here, can you scoot back?"

She slid back on the bench seat, still holding firm to him, letting his try to maneuver himself better.  
"Damn you and your short legs. You make this look easy."  
"Here, just move your knees-" She slid her own legs to the side, refusing to let go of him as he shifted, trying to move her further up.  
"When did they start making cars so small?"  
"Maybe you're the problem here."  
"I am never the problem." Muttering the words, he began kissing her again, pressing his fingers beneath the hem of her panties. "There we go, much better."  
Her toes curled as she tightened her grip, gasping as he slid his fingers against her, "If we get caught, I'm killing you."  
"A risk I'll take." Slowly, he rubbed at her, brushing his fingers over her clit just softly enough to drive her mad.  
"Shit- Oh my god!"  
"See? I told you," he kissed the side of her face, his voice low and dulcet, "totally innocent."  
"Are you so sure?" Her voice was more breath than words.  
"Oh, please. Would a nice lady like the noble Violet ever let a bad man touch her in the back of a car? It's ridiculous, unthinkable." As he spoke, he slid a finger inside her, earning another gasp. Smirking, he nipped at her neck. "Completely preposterous. She's a good girl; she'd never do that."  
"Come back and kiss me," she pulled his face back towards hers.  
"So forward," he murmured against her lips, still smiling. "How uncouth."  
"Yes, I get it, just-" she gasped again, arching down against him as he slipped another finger inside her, quickening his pace.

Taking advantage of her open mouth, he pressed his tongue between her teeth, feeling the whine that escaped her as she balled his shirt between her fingers.  
"God, you're adorable," he pulled back just long enough to catch his breath, and then he was kissing her again, feeling her tongue against his, the way her thighs pressed to his hand, her tense legs tight to his side. "Pretty little Violet, virtuous and disastrous and completely mine."  
"If you don't stop, I'll-" he never got to find out what she would do, her own hand covering her mouth, trying to muffle the encroaching groan. Her teeth bit into her finger as she moaned, stifling the sound.  
"There's my good girl. God, I love you." Pulling her hand away, he kissed her lips, loving the way she melted into his touch, letting him move her. Her knees pressed to his ribs, cramped and oddly positioned, but just as urgent and lovely as ever. Pulling his hand away, he kissed her gently, listening gleefully to the sound of her trying to catch her breath.

"See?" He cocked his eyebrow, smug, "We didn't get caught."  
"You're terrible," she muttered, exhausted.  
"And you're beautiful."  
"Oh my god," she rubbed at her eyes, "I can't believe you actually got me to do this. What's next? Are we gonna skip third period to smoke cigarettes beneath the bleachers?"  
"I would pay good money to watch you become a private school rebel," he teased, running his hand along her leg soothingly.  
"Oh yeah?" she smiled, stretching her legs out over his, "How much money are we talking?"  
"That's my girl," slinking an arm behind her, he scooted closer, pulling her thighs into his lap.  
Leaning against him, she smirked, staring vacantly at the steamed window as he continued petting her lovingly. Reaching out, she absentmindedly traced a heart into the fog.  
"What's next? Are we gonna sneak into an R rated movie?"  
"We could, if you want."  
She shook her head, looking up at him with a glint in her eye, "I'll pass. Besides, we got some unfinished business."  
"Yeah?" He cocked his eyebrow.  
"Yeah," sitting up, she kissed him, her hand pressing to his upper thigh.

"Well, when you put it that way," smirking, he tugged at her until she was straddling him, his back pressed to the back of the bench seat. She had to stoop so that her head didn't hit the ceiling, but as she kissed him again, none of that mattered. The only way the outside world existed at all was through the small heart-shaped window she had carved into the glass, which was rapidly fading away, undone by his shaking breath.


	17. As a hello

College AU, aka my pet AU, aka easily my favorite AU

...

"I think I may love you."  
"Pardon?"  
"Sorry, what I meant to say is…" the boy paused, staring, "No, I got it right the first time. I love you."  
"We've hardly spoken, sir."  
"I know, believe me I know. I haven't had time to gain a right to the words, and yet they persist. I love you, though I-"  
"Stop, stop, stop," sighing, the man walked between them, staring at the paper in his hands, "What the hell is this? 'Though I know not from where it flows?' That's absolute garbage. You've got to cut that."  
"I told you," she glanced to her scene partner, muttering.

She only needed this credit to fulfill a fine arts requirements; who knew intro to theater would be so much trouble? Perhaps it could have been a good class, had it not been taught by a mad man. He was impossibly egotistical, only allowing his students to refer to him as "Professor" or "Sir." Unlike the other fine arts professors, he absolutely refused to shrug off formalities, insisting that he had earned his honorific and would keep it. Mostly, the class itself was just listening to him lecture, telling self-centered and most likely exaggerated stories about his own theatrical exploits. However, deciding to torture his students beyond previously known capacities for cruelty, he had decided as of late that their lack of enthusiasm simply meant they weren't engaged enough, and so had given them the hellish assignment of writing a play, splitting the scenes by groups.  
"No good," he waved flippantly with his hand, "try again."  
"We've been trying," her partner groaned. "This isn't listed as a writing-intensive class-"  
"If you're going to appreciate the theatre," making sure to pronounce the word in the most condescending way possible, he straightened his back irately, "you must appreciate all parts of it. Try again. Take it from the top."  
Sighing, Violet's scene partner turned to face her again, gripping his crumpled script tightly.  
"I think I may love you."  
"Pardon?"  
"Sorry, what I meant to say is-"  
"What you meant to say-" Standing, the Professor interrupted them again, causing the class to groan, "-is 'I am sorry for doing such a disservice to the arts.' My god. I'm offended on behalf of actors everywhere."  
"Sir, this wasn't supposed to be an acting class-"  
"And yet, you have done so terribly, it has become one." He gestured the boy off roughly. Violet groaned inwardly, hoping he wouldn't fail them over this. "No matter how terrible the writing, a real actor knows how to work with it. Allow me to demonstrate." Clearing his throat, he lifted his copy of their script to the height of his waist, suddenly fixing his eyes on Violet. A chill ran down her spine at the coldness of his gaze, the slight upturn of his lips as he strode silently towards her, reaching out with gentle hand to tilt her chin upwards, up, up, up, until she was meeting his eyes. Her breath caught in her throat, terrified.  
"I think I may love you." When he spoke, it was with a gravely purr in his voice. She realized with a shudder that this was the first time he had ever actually spoken to her; she usually made it a point to disappear into the background.  
"Pardon?" her voice came out as a squeak, authentically surprised and frightened.  
"Sorry, what I meant to say is-" he paused mid-sentence, his mouth open just slightly enough for her to see his tongue press to the back of his teeth as slowly, his lips curled into a smirk, "No, I was correct the first time. I love you."  
"We've hardly spoken, sir," she desperately hoped that everyone believed the tremble in her voice to simply be the effect of her own good acting. In all reality, she found herself sweating beneath the laser gaze of his shining eyes, fixated exclusively on her, having built her in his mind into a woman he loved.  
"I know, believe me I know. I haven't had time to gain a right to the words…" lowering his hand from her face, he instead gripped her own hand, lifting her fingers to his mouth. Lightly, he pressed a kiss to them. She hoped he didn't notice how sweaty her palms were. "And yet, they persist. I love you." Breaking just as suddenly as he had started, he dropped her hand, stepping back. "Beyond that the script becomes unusable." The class offered a polite smattering of applause, and she felt her face flush red at the sudden realization of just how many people had witnessed her moment of elated terror. "I expect a new draft of your scene by next Tuesday."  
"If you could give us a better idea of what you want! You haven't given us anything-" her scene partner interrupted again, very obviously close to losing his mind.  
"I think what he's trying to say," Violet held a hand out, trying to stem the damage to her grade before it started, "is that some more guidance might be helpful. We would hate to… disgrace… your fine tastes?" Her voice lilted up, turning the statement into a question.  
"Do not worry, Miss Baudelaire," their Professor smirked, leaning against his desk, "I have the utmost faith in you. Although, should you need it, my office hours are listed on the syllabus."  
For a brief moment, she was so caught between the idea of failing and the concept of being caught in a very small room with him that she almost didn't notice that he already knew her name.  
"Thank you," she nodded quietly, still undecided on which devil she would choose. Slipping silently into her seat, she ducked her head back down again, hoping to disappear back into the background.  
"Next group?"  
Two more students shuffled out of their seats, coming to the front of the room. Deciding it had been long enough, she dared to look up, only to catch him staring at her, a smile in his eyes. Looking back down quickly, she felt her heart race, anxious, still feeling the weight of his stare against her skin even long after the class had ended.

Actions


	18. Before we jump

Gunslinger AU

...

"Shit. Shitshitshitshit-" he skidded to a stop at the edge, only barely not tumbling over.  
She grabbed at his arm, tugging the fabric of his sleeve roughly, "What now?"  
"I don't know," he could hear the panic in her voice mirrored in his.  
"You've got to think of something!"  
"You think I don't know that? Shit! Shitshitshit!" he paced in uneasy circles, searching desperately for an escape. She had been right. He hated when she was right. But how the hell was he supposed to resist the allure? Even she, sensible as she was, had succumbed once he had framed it nice enough."It'll be fine," he had told her; "Nothing that we haven't done before." And it hadn't been, shouldn't have been. He had no idea how it went so wrong. It must have been a set-up, had to be.  
"Think faster!" her voice interrupted his thoughts, the sounds of shouts in the distance becoming much too loud.  
"I'm thinking! I'm thinking! I-" staring at the river far below them, he turned to her sharply, "I have a plan. And it's terrible."  
"Great, let's go. What's the plan?"  
Not saying anything, he simply cocked his head toward the edge of the cliff, down to the water.  
Staring at the height, her face remained a mask of blank thought, rapid calculations dancing behind her eyes, "Seriously?"  
"Yes."  
"Okay."  
"Okay?"  
"Yeah." Quickly, she untied the rope at her hip.  
"Listen-I understand it's terrible at best-"  
"Most of your plans are."  
"That doesn't mean-" Looking over the edge again, the weight of his own mortality pressed upon him. "Okay, new plan-" he held his hand up, desperately scanning the surrounding area of anything at all that could be of use. "I-" There was nothing. Nothing at all. He'd die. She'd die. "I'll distract them. You go, follow the river, it'll lead you to-"  
"I like your first plan better."  
"Look, the least I can do is give you a chance-"  
"You'll die if you stay!"  
"Plan A doesn't exactly guarantee that I won't."  
In the not-so-far-off distance, a shot rang out, cutting their argument short.  
Tying a loop between each of their belts, she snapped the rope tight. "Together or not at all."  
"You seriously trust my shitty plans like that?"  
"No, but I trust you."  
"Bad choice."  
"Conversation for later." Grabbing his hand, she turned to the edge, staring down.  
"We might not make it."  
"And nothing you can say will change that." Another shot rang out, entirely too close now. "Ready?"  
"No."  
"Me neither. But if we wait until we're ready, we'll die here."  
"We might die down there too."  
"We also might not." Grabbing his neck, she forced him down to her height, kissing him hard. He squeezed her hand, feeling her pulse thrum in time with his. "Survive this, alright? I got something I gotta tell you after."  
"What?"  
"That you're a fucking idiot." Gripping his shirt, she grabbed onto him tightly, "Also, I love you."  
And then there was the air, sharp and painful on his face, the sound of their screams falling behind them as they dropped, down, down, down, into the plunging darkness below.


	19. Muffled, from the other side of the door

"Go fish."  
He heard her sigh, a card sliding off the top of the pile neatly stacked beneath the door.  
"Fours?"  
"Fuck off."  
"Language." He smirked as she slid the card beneath the door.  
"Any sevens?"  
He glanced down at the seven in his hand. "Go fish."  
"Any word yet?"  
He glanced out the window at the still vacant street. "Fish again."  
"Seriously? How long does it take for grown men to find a hardware store?"  
"Aren't you supposed to be the tool aficionado? Why don't you have any screwdrivers?"  
He could feel her glare through the wood, "You know damn well what happened."  
"Well, perhaps this can be a lesson for you."  
"Yeah, maybe I'll marry up next time."  
"Rude. Have any eights?"  
"Go fish."  
He pulled a card off the top of the pile. "Besides, it's not my fault you've mousetrapped yourself."  
"In a larger sense, yes. It is. Any jacks?"  
He slid one under the door. "Poor little mouse. Outsmarted by a door."  
"You're not funny."  
"I think I'm hilarious. Any twos?"  
"Of course you do. You're the only one who does. Go fish."  
Drawing a two off the pile, he took another card, "Little mouse mechanic can't figure out how doors work."  
"That's not what happened and you know it!"  
"I'm pretty sure that's exactly what happened." As hilarious as the situation was, he would have paid exorbitant amounts of money to see her face right then. "And more importantly, until you're freed, you've become a captive audience for my apparently insufferable humor."  
"Dream come true, huh? Finally an audience that can't leave?"  
"Now that's just uncalled for."  
"Any queens?"  
"Just the one. What sort of unfaithful man do you take me for?"  
"Insufferable. You're insufferable."  
"Your consolation prize, my dear." He slid a card beneath the door.  
"I hate you."  
"Yes, yes. I love you too, Darling."  
He could hear her sigh, the slight thud of her head against the door.  
"What time is it?"  
He checked his watch, "Five."  
"Damn," she whispered quietly.  
"Got any sevens?"  
"Go fish."  
He took a card from the pile. "What if you're trapped in there forever?"  
"Stop it."  
"That'll be difficult. I'll have to board up the wall, change my name to Rochester. Just imagine the paperwork."  
"You're a fucking prick, you know that, right?"  
"Try not to scare my new wife too much; I'm trying to marry someone nicer this time."  
"Once I get out, I'm literally going to kill you."  
"You mean if. 'Here lies Violet'," he covered his heart with his hand, "entombed forever in a monument to her own inability to work keys."  
"Hey, real quick, can you do me a favor?"  
"Who am I to deny a dying woman her last wishes?"  
"Hit yourself for me."  
"Should I aim within your reach? Attack my kneecaps?"  
"Fuck off, I'm not that short!"  
"Tiny little Violet. So small. Can't reach the tall shelves without her husband's help."  
"I'm literally going to punch a hole through this door just to kill you."  
"Can you reach or should I slide a step stool under the door?"  
"I don't understand the joke! I'm not short!"  
"You've already said all my jokes are bad. I might as well capitalize off of that. Whose turn is it?"  
"Mine. Any threes?"  
He shook his head before realizing she couldn't see him, "Go fish. So, what are your plans for the outside world?"  
"I've got a few debts to settle, an ex to visit."  
"Oh, yes?"  
"Yeah. He was a total prick. Definitely had it coming."  
"Had what coming?"  
"He'll see."  
"Had you coming? Because that's my plan."  
"You are literally the worst fucking human in the entire world."  
"Wow, prison's really hardened you. Where'd you learn words like that?"  
"Literally from living with you."  
"I always knew you idolized me."  
"Please shut up."  
"Yes, yes. I love you too. How flattering."  
"Are they here yet?"  
He glanced out the window to the bittersweet surprise of two of his men parking a car, "Actually, yes."  
"Oh thank god."  
"Oh come on. This couldn't have been too horrible of a date."  
"The fact that you consider it a date speaks volumes."  
"Don't worry, little jailbird; we'll break you out soon enough."  
"I thought I was a mouse."  
"You can be both."  
"Soon enough can't possibly come soon enough."  
"Just wait; so many things have changed since you've gone."  
"Such as?"  
"I've already remarried. You're going to love my new wife."  
"She wouldn't stand a fucking chance."  
"So long as there's a door between you and her, she might." He smiled as she groaned, acting more irritated than she actually was. Deciding not to push his luck, he slid his fingers beneath the door. "I'm kidding. You know I could never leave my little mouse-bird of a wife."  
"I'm going to kill you." He could hear the repressed smile in her voice as she slid her hand beside his, their fingers touching.  
"I wouldn't want to go any other way. Any eights?"  
"Go fish."


	20. The words dripping from your tongue

Bootlegger AU

...

"Tell me you love me?"  
"You already know I do."  
"Do it anyway."  
"Feeling particularly needy today, aren't we?"  
"Don't kick a man while he's down."  
"Fine." Taking off her sunglasses, she wrapped her hands behind his neck. Slowly, she climbed into his lap, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "I love you."  
"Not like that."  
"Like what then?"  
"Like you mean it."  
"I meant it."  
"Then more than if you meant it."  
"You paying me enough to mean it?"  
"I always do."  
Sighing, she caught his face in her hands, kissing him, "My poor man. Always going through it."  
"Power doesn't come easy."  
"To you, it does." She kissed him again, smirking, "Or at least it seems that way."  
His arms slunk behind her, holding her tight to his chest, "Don't get cheeky. You're in an enviable position."  
"I could say the same."  
"I guess we're just too beautiful to last, then."

She smiled as she brushed a hand over his head, stroking back his hair, "Why so sentimental tonight?"  
"Can't I just like the look of you?"  
"Of course you can. Things just don't tend to be so simple with you."  
"Nothing is simple for me."  
"I can be."  
"You couldn't if you tried." Smirking, she kissed him with a greater passion than before, which he succumbed to easily. He was an important man, a dangerous man; he had more enemies than friends and more friends than people he trusted. But her—she was his lockpin downfall, disinterested in his empire, his crown. She attended his parties, accepted his gifts, allowed his presence, but she never encouraged him beyond a tempting wink and breathless kiss. He had damned himself in that aspect, really. Perhaps things could have been different if he hadn't been so hasty to have her. But then again, she had allowed herself to be bribed, had agreed to his affections. At least she had never really pretended to love him back; that much would have been too cruel, even for them. At times, it almost seemed as if they kept each other as pets; gilded cages and diamond cuffs the only things keeping them together. She had more power than she realized, and yet, unable to love him, she had no idea on what more she was missing out on. He would have traded his kingdom for her heart, would leave it all to her if only she could consent to his adoration. It was pathetic, really, this scraping, infected yearning pushing at his chest. And yet he needed her, needed her like he needed his throne, his power, his glory. He needed her to want him, wanted her to need him, was positively ready to die at her feet should she only ask him to.

It was almost heartbreaking, how grandly he had miscalculated her allegiance. He shouldn't have trusted her so readily, allowing her access to his contacts, locations, supply. He shouldn't have trusted her at all. But he was a man, and men were stupid when it came to pretty women. That's what she had been told anyway. Part of her felt guilty, like it had been too easy. She was bait too well suited to his tastes; it was unfair. How was she to know that a man with such power would be so easily undone?  
That wasn't to say that she minded the job. The parties were extravagant, interesting, and who in their right mind would turn down champagne in such a time? But him-he had taken her into his circle, into his arms, into his bed. He exposed his back to the knife she held shaking over it, waiting for the opportune time to strike. Looking into his dark eyes, she saw all the wickedness they contained, but also all of the sick grief, desperate and wanting. The man who had everything, never to be satiated.  
She brushed his hair back with her fingers, catching his face in her hands, kissing him deeply. His tongue pressed back against hers, his fingers tight against her hips. She arched her back into his touch. Things could be so much worse for her; she had gotten lucky. He could be kind when he wanted to, was gentle when he meant to be. Despite the power, he wasn't a brute, never struck or threatened her. He had a sharp wit and biting tongue, but his bravado wasn't unearned. He was just shady enough to be successful, and more than satisfactory when it came to the rest. He made his money well, and when he laid her down, she certainly had nothing to complain about. And so maybe that was why she was taking so long with the job; she had so much to lose. It wasn't a bad place for her to be, and while she didn't like being a canary, she didn't exactly mind being taken care of so well. He was nothing if not doting.  
Pulling back to catch her breath, she pressed another chaste kiss to his mouth. Her fingers trailed over his cheekbones, down his face, to the curve of his lips.  
"I love you," she whispered the words in a breathy rumble, the sound building from her sternum. He smiled ever so slightly, temporarily satisfied. Her hands wound behind his neck again as she held onto him, kissing his lips once more.  
"You're my girl?" He muttered the words into her mouth.  
"Always am. No one else is man enough to handle me."  
"Damn right. You are a handful." Sliding his arms back, he gripped her ass playfully.  
Laughing, she kissed him again, "I love you, I do." She kissed him slowly, tasting the tactile shape of the words as she spoke them. She felt the way his lips pressed against hers as if to swallow them, make them his forever. Given half the chance, he would have tried to bottle them too, she was sure of it; store them thick and amber yellow on a shelf somewhere, give the concoction a name like "solstice summer." He was always giving things silly names.  
As she kissed him the words sank into her skin, became a part of the motion of her hands, his sturdy legs and chest beneath her, holding her up. She felt them in the way he held her, the twist of his lips, thrum of her pulse. She felt the words go first to his head then to hers, making them both drunk off of this intangible whisky, this hateful ambrosia that would undo her entirely. She'd always been able to hold her liquor, but as he kissed her back, for just a moment she found herself dizzy and spinning into this mistake.


	21. The late sunlight glowing in your hair

Persephone and Hades AU

...

And he had damned them all then, had left the world to crumble to dust. Was dust so awful, after all? Dust was all he was Lord of, all he had and knew. Life was fleeting, fickle, the moment of electric air between the clouds and the scorched earth; it could never last. But then there had been her, and he had let it all drop away, had let everything else disappear in her name. She was more than beautiful, more than radiant. She put Ero's dear mother to shame, had made him feel his own exile all the more acutely; he hadn't minded before, hadn't known what was being kept from him. But there she was, upon her knees in the dirt, bare feet brown with soil and his vacant heart knocked its way loose, splintered upon the earth, planted itself within the ground now made fallow beneath her care. Her thin hands brushed the hair behind her shoulders, wiped the sweat from her brow, and he knew that he was undone.

The flowers frosted where he stepped, became glass sculptures that shattered at his touch. His shadow was long, built architectural by the furs he wore, the heavy leaden crown upon his head coming off in his hands. She had sense enough to be afraid, had known even then that nothing acceptable could come of this, but then he was beside her in the dirt, laying his crown at her feet, catching her fingers in his stone-cold hands.

And she was all fire, all blood. The flush of her cheek, spattering of sunburn over her shoulders made him jealous of the unkind sun, Apollo's irreverent chariot doing her the injustice of any harm. He had known exactly what to say, was ready to tell her whatever she needed to hear, but then she smiled at him with her freshwater pearl teeth, and the radiance consumed him, making him forget all his lovely words. It was unfair, to have been so deprived of the light, only to catch it all at once. How was he to survive it?

His bones were sharp beneath his skin, his touch too kind, all reverence and adoration. He hardly dared touch her, simply catching her hands in his own. Wordlessly, he pressed his lips to her fingers, his touch cool cloth on feverish skin, soothing and lovely and the culmination of everything she had ever known. She didn't fear death, knew it as the other half, was too accustomed to loss and grief to ever fear endings again. And yet, she found herself despairing at the thought of such a moment ending.

And she was born heir to the earth, royal and loving and so very entirely alive. All he could offer her was permanence, sure and certain permanence. He told her as much, letting the dirt soil his clothes, his skin. He let the light burn his face, willing to go blind if it meant her image would be forever seared within him. He promised her kingdoms, promised her kindness and gifts and adoration. Saying nothing, she placed a flower within his hands, watched the way it withered and dried at his touch. Sinking, he readied the touch to be his grave, but closing her hands over his, she smiled, stilling his resolve. Taking the dead plant, she cupped it between her own hands, holding it so tenderly it evoked pained fires of envy within him, and then the sprig came back to life, as green and fresh as it had been before.

He lifted her easily, her feet willingly parting from the fresh grass, the scent of hyacinth tangling into his hair. Her arms caught behind his neck, trusting and ready. She was born of the earth; it was no stranger to her. She grew as roots did, deep in the soil, growing stronger the closer she became to the seat of their power. And he was strength enough, a frame upon which she could stretch her heights. After all, nothing without foundation could stay.

Her lips were perfect rosebuds, honeysuckle sweet and impossibly kind. Every kindness he had never known resided within her bones, made her into love manifest, his devotion outstretching his infinite life. And he loved her, loved her as he might have never loved, loved her despite the fact that he was frozen, the bookend to all love stories. But then she was kissing him, hydrangea petals in her hair, making a wedding hall of whatever ground they touched upon. She was the beginning and he was the end, his love capable of lasting past it all, burning past Apollo's unkind sun. His damnation was his comfort; despite it all, he could never be undone. A Phoenix of adoration, he was destined to rise anew to her love until the end of days.

And so she twined a group of saplings into a cove, made them grow dark and thick, the heavy scent of wood in the air. The sunlight filtered down green through the leaves, casting a living pallor over them. And he kissed her too, kissed her still-uncertain lips, kissed her as if they had, after all, been searching all this time. She brushed her hands over his face, drew a wreath of carnations about his neck. And she loved him, despite it all, despite her better judgement, she loved him in the way all halves must do. Alone they were complete, but together they were a universe.

As the sun filtered down, it hung in her hair, danced across her face. He kissed her lips, her face, her bare shoulders. The earth swelled into a bed of soft white flowers, finally forgiving him for all the time it had kept him prisoner, forgave him for welcoming it home in the end. And she lay down upon the earth, took him with her by the hand, beckoned him down into the worthy damnation of their wedding bed.

And he took her hand, kissed her lips, gave her the only gift she could not grow herself. She was a garden, lovely and tempered, but laying her down, he freed her of that, made her nature untamed and ruthless. He gave her the gift of death, the gift of refusal and desire and awe.

And she kissed his unholy lips, made life boil in his veins, made him certain he could pinch this world between his fingers like a flame. And he was hers, entirely and unfathomably, down in the dirt, upon the fallow earth.


	22. Through a song

"If you do not stop, I am going to lose my mind."  
"Okay, so I'm a little out of practice."  
"A little? You call that a little?" He scoffed, leaning against the piano. "You, Darling, are torturing that poor thing."  
"Gee, sorry, I must have been too busy trying to survive my own captivity to keep my piano skills as sharp as your sensibilities demand." Deciding not to let him get the better of her, she kept plucking at the notes.  
Waving his hands, he made his disgust evident, "Stop, Stop, Stop. My god, woman. You're making a mockery of the arts."  
"Oh, hush. It's not as easy as you think."  
"No?" Leaning over, he played a simple melody with one hand.  
"Well now you're just showing off."  
"I thought you were supposed to be clever. How are you this hilariously awful?"

"Now you're just being mean." She glared at him, offended.  
"I mean, I suppose you have to start somewhere, but really?"  
"Yeah, okay, alright, I get it." Closing the slide over the keys, she began to scoot off the bench in a huff.  
Coming up behind her, he wrapped his arms about her shoulders, holding her in place. "Oh come on, don't do that."  
"Do what? Leave? Not allow myself to be made a fool of?"  
"You were just about to storm off and stay mad at me all day."  
"Have you ever considered that not everything is about you?"  
"Never. The very thought is heresy." Smiling, he kissed the top of her head. "Here, let me help you."  
"I don't want your help."  
"Don't be cross just because I'm so dashingly talented. Here, look," reaching around her, he placed his fingers on the keyboard, playing a quick scale. "Seven notes, yes?"  
"Okay."  
"All you have to do is put them in the right order."  
"Entirely easier said than done."  
"It's a dance. You just have to know the steps." He quickly picked out a simple tune. Awkwardly, she placed her hands alongside his, butchering the five note song. Trying to find something not entirely disparaging to say, he fell silent.  
"Is this a good time to tell you I'm no good at dancing?"  
"I might have guessed."  
"Never mind, it's stupid anyway."  
"Art is not stupid!"  
"Then I'll leave it to you, okay?"  
"Nonsense. You're a smart girl, you'll get it. Try this," carefully, he tapped out a clunky tune, which she just barely managed to replicate, albeit awkwardly. "See? You just have to learn to listen to how the notes respond to one another."  
"What about sheet reading?"  
He shrugged, "Couldn't tell you."  
"Wait," she pivoted to face him, "you can't read sheet music?"  
"No."  
"Then what are all of these for?" She gestured out to the piles of paper. He shrugged.  
"Presentation. Atmosphere."  
"You are really impossible."  
"Look, you like books. Just think of it as a story. Everything is followed by something else."  
"But how do you know what follows?"  
"Because it's what's supposed to happen next. No matter how complicated the song, the note either fits the story or it doesn't. Listen," he began to play a smooth strain, interrupted by a harsh sharp after a few bars. "See? Wrong story, wrong note. But, put the same note in a different story," he played the same tune, transposed now to fit, "and it glides right in. It works."  
"This makes absolutely no sense at all. How do you know what works?"  
"Because it does. Only certain things can go together," falling into an easy rhythm, he began to play a waltzy slow tune.  
"But how can you be sure it's right?"  
"It sounds right."  
"You know what? I'm just going to leave this to you."  
"No, wait." He kept her trapped, thinking hard. "Okay. You don't get dancing or writing. You like complex equations and weird machines, right? Think of it like a formula. It's not a dance, it's science."  
"How?"  
"The… isotopes," he played a chord, "work better with… other isotopes?" He played the same chord, but in a minor key. "I don't know, you're not speaking my language anymore. Finite notes, infinite combinations. Only some work well enough together to have a reaction."  
"So… particulate to product?"  
"Sure. Mix these three products," he arranged her hand on the keyboard, "and get this end product." Pressing her hand down, she pulled out a successful C chord.  
"Okay…" she hesitated, uncertain.  
"Do that enough times, and-" confidently, he began to play Mozart's fourteenth.  
Slowly, she shook her head, "Seems impossible to me."  
"You just need more practice," smiling, he kissed the top of her head again.  
"That's what I was trying to do, before I was so rudely interrupted!"  
"Fair enough," smirking he sat beside her on the bench, leaning back against the keys. "Tell you what—I'll make you a deal. You promise to get better, I promise I won't complain."  
"Deal."  
"Wonderful. Now, you might want to get started right away. If your playing earlier was anything to go off of, you need a lot of practice."  
He laughed as she hit his arm, irritated but still fighting back a smile, terribly beautiful and wonderfully imperfect.


	23. When one stops the kiss to whisper

She had to stand on her toes to kiss him, holding on tight so that she wouldn't stumble. As he held her he kissed her face, her lips, her neck.  
"Poor little Violet. You didn't actually think that, did you?"  
"I've known you long enough to never try to predict your behavior."  
"Of course nothing happened. How could it, with you looking like that?"  
"You were gone awful long."  
"Strictly business. Although, I must admit, I do like you when you're jealous."  
"Stop it."

"I'm serious. I might just go and have an affair just to watch you get all riled up." Circling his arms behind her, he lifted her up, kissing her pouting mouth.  
"I'm serious too. If you disgrace me, I'll kill you."  
"Oh, that's what it's about, is it? Has nothing to do with how tall and blond my associate is?"  
"Come off it. You know it doesn't."  
"Do you not think I'm attractive and powerful enough?"  
"No, I just know your type."  
"Which is?"  
"Morally dubious and willing."  
"If I'm as horrible as you make me out to be, perhaps you shouldn't miss me so much."  
"I don't."  
"Hmm." He smirked as he kissed her again, her grip about him too tight to give any weight to what she was saying. "What's got you so upset?"  
"I was just thinking-"  
"That never ends well for me."  
"-and, you're not sleeping with anyone else, yes?"  
"Didn't we just cover this?"  
"It's just. I'd rather you tell me."  
"Pardon?"  
"If you're going to, I'd just rather you tell me."  
"Okay?" He paused, confused. "But I'm not."  
"Alright, just. Don't lie about it."  
"Am I being accused of something?"  
"No, only…" she shrugged weakly, "You're… easily bored."  
"Are- Are you asking if I'm bored of sleeping with you?"  
"No! Well, not really. Maybe. I don't know! Just-" frustrated she paused, trying to formulate her thoughts. "It's like this—this is the only thing I've ever had, right? So as far as I'm concerned, things are good. BUT. You have a whole history of experience outside of this, so you specifically know what you're missing. And if you go wandering looking for it, I don't want to be the last to know."  
"Oh my god, you're serious."  
"Don't make fun of me!"  
"I'm not- I'm not making fun, promise." Smiling, he kissed her again. "If it makes you feel better, I promise to tell you. But also, you need to know that you," still smirking, amused, he kissed beneath her ear, "are the most erotic creature I have ever seen."  
"Now you're just being mean."  
"You are magnificent, Countess. Do you think anyone else gets to come home to such a sight as this?" Again, he lifted her, spinning her in a tight circle with the simple hope of making her less angry.  
She smiled as he set her down, still somewhat irritated. "Probably."  
"But not like this. Believe me, there is nothing boring about finding you in my bed. On my honor."  
"Well that's hardly reassuring." But she smiled anyway, kissing him back. Sighing, he pet back her hair, letting his hand rest behind her jaw, holding her face to his.

Breaking the kiss, she looked up at him again. "But are you sure you-"  
But then he was kissing her, a suppressed laugh curling his lips into a smile, and despite it all, she wanted to believe him.


	24. I almost lost you kiss

Gunslinger AU

...

"Holy shit- Holy fucking shit-" Grabbing her, he hoisted her up before she even had the chance to try to stand. "Are you alright? Are you okay? Where does it hurt?"  
"I'm fine, I'm-" she put a hand to her head, her eyes still wide, "a little dazed."  
"Are you okay? Did you get hit?" Frantically, he began searching over her for any signs of injury.  
"I'm fine, I told you, I'm fine."  
"Are you sure? That-" looking behind them, he stared off at the distance. "Holy shit!"  
"We survived, I'm fine. At least for now."  
Not believing her, he continued to look over her quickly, turning her head one way and then another, "That was- It was-"

"Unbelievably successful?"  
"Terrifying. I told you to sit this out!" His concern turned to anger as he furrowed his brow.  
"Like hell I would. You wouldn't have survived without me."  
"You barely survived as is!"  
"But I did!"  
"BARELY! Obviously you're not ready, so-"  
"I'm fine! Stop being so scared!"  
"I'm not scared! I just-" glaring at each other they paused, and then his hands were tangled in her hair, holding onto her desperately as their lips met like embers and gunpowder. Her arms wrapped behind his neck, pulling him tighter, closer, his wandering hands gripping her however he could.  
"Holy shit," he murmured against her open mouth, breaking for air.  
"For once, you're absolutely right." She kissed him again, her hands fast against his cheeks, clinging to him.  
Without particularly wanting to, he began to laugh, his teeth colliding with hers, "Oh my god, that was terrible."  
"It's fine. It's over. Now stop talking so much," she laughed too, relieved and more than a bit shaken up. Complying happily, he pulled her tight to his chest, their rapid heartbeats slowing to the dull thrum of elation, bruised and sweaty and more than a little content.


	25. Last kiss

She wasn't a gentle person. Or, no; she was gentle but not kind. A dangerous mixture.  
It was unfair, the way she held onto him, her head against his chest as if she wanted to hear his heart break. He wouldn't deny her the right, would shatter to a million pieces if it made any of this easier.  
And how cruel could she be, to kiss him while crying? His gut twisted, a terrified mixture of anger and despair, her hand unfairly soft against his cheek. Desperate for her to stay, he held onto her, tried to communicate by his lips alone his frantic internal mantra of "I love you, I do, I love you," but she wasn't listening anymore. It was too late.  
Softly, she eased off her toes, and he continued to hold her up, as if, if he kissed her long enough, he could change her mind, could make her stay.

He was cold as he kissed her, stiff and unrelenting. He probably hated the fact that she was crying; crying always upset him. Straining, she remained on her toes, holding herself to his height, hoping that if she waited long enough, he would ask her to stay. But no. He simply let her break the kiss, his grip hard as if to remind her that she was still his, no matter where she went. She was his.  
His breath shook against her lips, and for a moment she thought he might speak, but he said nothing, did nothing. Leaving her heart in her place, she stepped back, feeling the gliding weight of his hand slip off of her arm, the absence of him accumulating all at once, negative space made manifest. Not willing to meet his eyes, she looked away, turning quickly before she could change her mind.


	26. We can never be together kiss

College AU! Hell yeah!

...

Both of them froze. Just as quickly, he pulled his hand off her knee, clearing his throat awkwardly.  
"Sorry, I-"  
"It's fine-"  
"I didn't mean-"  
"Consider it forgotten." Her words, pinched and rushed, struck him harder than they ought to.  
"Forgotten?" He prodded before he could stop himself.

"Well, maybe not forgotten, but… You understand." Definitely not forgotten. She was going to remember this moment, dwell on it obsessively later, try untangle the entire thing.  
"If my behavior offends, I apologize."  
"I'm not offended."  
"Then I suppose I rescind my apology," he smiled at her, his curled lip exposing his teeth, and deep within her something chattered.  
"Professor, I-"  
"Miss Baudelaire, I do not mean to give you the wrong impression. It may seem like I am a older man, flirting with a young girl."  
"But?" She hesitated, waiting for the sting of his rejection.  
"But nothing. I'm simply stating that is probably how this looks."  
Slowly, she nodded, cautious, "It's probably a good thing no one's looking."  
"My thoughts exactly. I'd hate for anyone to get the wrong idea about how I feel about you."  
"Of course. Although," pausing, she weighed her words, "without context, how do you suppose it would look?"  
"Well," leaning back, he stretched his arms out along the back of the futon until his hand rested behind her. "Anyone who looked without bothering to find out the whole story would probably think that I admire your tenacity and talent for the arts, while still finding delight in your willingness to argue any point."  
"Is that all?"  
"Well, if they had the wrong sort of idea," he leaned closer to her, his voice dropping to a throaty purr, "they might accuse me of thinking of you in that red skirt entirely too often. They might even suppose that sometimes, I spend even more time thinking about what's underneath it."  
Her heart beating in her throat, she nodded slowly, "Sort of like how people might think I come to your office hours so often with so many questions because I don't pay attention?"  
"Exactly. Because, as we both know," Slowly, he slid his hand back onto her knee, "You are a very good student."  
"And if they watched me too closely during lecture, they might think I didn't hear a word you said, too busy wondering."  
"Wondering what?"  
"If you're just as cocky in bed."  
"Yes," he smirked, moving his hand up her leg. "That would be awful."  
"They might even think I noticed your face and wore the red skirt on purpose last week."  
"You little cheat-" he caught himself. "Yes, well. It's a good thing that I keep all of my academic relationships professional."  
"And it's a very good thing no one's watching." Taking the plunge, she closed the little space still left between them, feeling the soft give of his lips beneath hers. Swiftly, his hand slid to her waist, holding her as his other hand cupped her face, kissing her with a passion that only comes from the constant pressure of restraint. She sighed into the kiss, gasping at his cold hands as his fingers brushed her side beneath her shirt.

He gripped her tightly, not one to give up on a prize. Sliding his hand behind her to the naked skin of her back, he pulled her into his open lap. She, adorably, fumbled, her nervous fingers tight behind his neck, as if he could ever willingly remove himself from her grasp. Ever the pupil, she waited for his lead, letting him push his tongue between her teeth before she reciprocated.  
"This is dangerous," she muttered the words against his face.  
"Do you like danger, Miss Baudelaire?" He smirked, breaking the kiss to move his lips along her thin neck.  
"Sometimes. Depends."  
"Depends on what?"  
"The payoff."  
"Fair enough. How do you feel about doing a little extra credit?"  
"Do I need it?"  
"Not particularly, but I've got a few things I'd very much like to teach you."  
"In that case, I'd be much obliged."  
"Good." Smirking, he slid his hands behind her, gripping her rear, pulling her towards him again. Laughing nervously, she allowed herself to be pressed to his chest, kissing him again in a relieved, open-mouthed sigh.


	27. Breaking the kiss to say something

"Am I supposed to be your personal foot rest?"  
"If you hate it so much, you can move."  
"I was here first, Dear."  
"Okay. And?"  
Still pretending to be miffed, he shook his head disappointedly, returning to his own reading. Absently, he placed his hand on her leg, gently stroking her bare skin with his thumb.  
Just when had finally gotten back into the rhythm of the paper he was desperately trying to make heads or tails of, she began fidgeting, pulling him out of his concentration. Finally, sighing, she closed her book.  
"Okay, you win, now stop distracting me."  
"Distracting?" He looked at her, genuinely surprised. "You find this distracting?"  
"Ha ha, very funny."  
Pleased, he smirked, "I had no idea you were so easily undone, Countess." Slowly, he let his hand wander up her leg, leaning in until his fingers alighted upon her hip and he was finally close enough to kiss her downturned lips.  
"Now you're just being rude," she ruined the quip with a smile, leaning forward to kiss him back. Tenderly, he pulled her closer, his hand sliding beneath her shirt to the small of her back. Her skin was warm to his touch, soft and giving beneath his hand. Always greedy, he tried to pull her closer, feeling her sigh against his lips. Wandering inch by inch, he traced along her spine, drawing indolent circles until she broke the kiss with a stuttering gasp.

"Well, then," smiling hungrily, he shifted until he was in front of her, her legs neatly caught on either side of his waist. "You really are easily undone. Noted."  
She was about to protest when he kissed her again, his fingers pressing back against her, confidently distracting her. She sighed, shuddering, her grip against him tightening. "Not so very difficult at all," he muttered, pleased, smiling in a way that made her very nervous indeed.

He could feel her shaking breath hot against his lips, her lithe fingers tightening against his neck.  
"Okay, yes, you've made your point," her voice was breathy, her face so close to his she practically kissed the words into his mouth.  
"Oh, no," he smirked, punctuating his words with a chaste peck against her lips. "See, now I'M distracted. You shouldn't have gotten my attention if you didn't want it, Countess."

Groaning irritatedly, she held his face, hoping he might finally shut up if she kissed him long enough. Compliant for the first time in his life, he simply kissed her back, brushing his fingers against her again, taking the opportunity of her gasp to deepen the kiss.  
"You're cruel."  
"And you like it." Smirking, pleased, he held her firm, ready to ride this out as far as he could.


	28. Routine kisses

She wakes up first. She makes the coffee, cleans the dishes, curses in the sanctuary of her kitchen, no disapproving ears to hear her. She cleans the table, creates the grocery list, finds a book.

He comes downstairs later, still tired, and doesn't question how the table became so clean. No matter how it's left at night, the table is always clean in the morning. If you asked him, he'd shrug, call it magic. A coffee is at his place, still hot. She's sitting at her spot, reading a book. Not wanting to interrupt, he brushes her hair from her face, kisses her forehead. She tilts her head towards him, doesn't say anything. She's busy, lost in her story. A few minutes later, once she's finished, she closes the book with a sigh, and standing, kisses his distracted cheek, leaving him to his own work.

She finds him later in the parlor, pacing, the phone cord not nearly long enough to follow his long strides. Wordlessly, she taps his arm, proffers the shirt she has mended. He takes it gratefully, pressing a kiss to her forehead. She rolls her eyes at his over-eager display, but smiles anyway.

In the afternoon, she is working and not paying any attention to him at all. He tries to break her concentration, to make her laugh, but instead he just pisses her off. She swats his arm. He pretends to be grievously injured until, obstinate as ever, she kisses him in reparation. She doesn't apologize and he doesn't want her to, but she does laugh, and so he is satisfied.

In the evening, he comes up behind her in the kitchen, startling her. He asks what she's cooking. She tells him nothing so long as he's leering over her. She can feel his smile as he kisses the back of her neck, ruffles her hair just to upset her. Showing off just how much taller he is, he rests his chin on her head, stands behind her and watches as she dices vegetables. She knows he likes watching the knives so she doesn't complain, even showing off a bit. He calls it erotic. She calls him insane.

That night, he tempts her away from her hostess duties with a glass of wine. Pressing it into her hands, he kisses her cheek, bids her stay. Humoring him, she does, sitting so that her pink knees poke out beneath the hem of her dress. He thinks about kissing her legs. When he tells her he's thinking about kissing her legs, she blushes, using the glass to cover her flustered expression. He smiles, but then she tells him to meet her in the kitchen in five minutes, and it takes everything in him not to run.

After a particularly long night, they lay in bed, her beneath his arm. She doesn't know if he's awake, and doesn't want to bother him, but does so anyway. He answers a kiss to the crown of her head, shushing her. She remembers he never payed off his coffee, and reminds him as such. Sighing, he tilts her head up, kisses her lips, asks if he can sleep now. Content, she lays down again, listens to his heartbeat, doesn't see the way he smiles, letting his lips rest gentle against her hair.


	29. Exhausted parents kiss

"No, this is YOUR problem."  
"Please," not having the energy to pretend she was at all together, she fell to pleading. "I haven't slept more than an hour!"  
"That sounds VERY much like a you problem."  
"Just two hours. Please. I just want to sleep."  
"You should have thought about that first. I tried to warn you."  
"One hour. Just one."  
"You should have just left it."  
"Thirty minutes?"  
He sighed, "I don't suppose you've cooked dinner, have you?"  
"Ten minutes."  
"God fucking damn it. Give me the fucking box."  
Grateful, she handed over the shoebox, "The clinic will be open Tuesday, and I can go then. I promise."  
"Whatever you say. Go sleep."  
Kissing his cheek, she narrowly avoided telling him she loved him.

Sighing, he stared down at the entirely too-tiny animal in his lap. Of course she had to rescue a fucking cat—bleeding heart Violet. After finding it by the street, she hadn't been able to leave it, and so it came into the house. Into his house. It wasn't that he minded cats, he just didn't particularly want one wandering around his stuff. The kitten was absolutely tiny, smaller than his hand, ears still folded and eyes still shut. Honestly, he didn't see how it could possibly be as much trouble as she claimed. Carefully, he reached out, cautiously touching it, making sure it was just sleeping and not dead. If the thing had died mere minutes after being handed off to him, she'd never forgive him. He heaved a sigh of relief as it moved, stretching, and then began to cry in a shrill voice.

…

"Violet. Violet, please." She woke up to him shaking her arm.  
"What time is it?" Sitting up, she rubbed her eyes, exhausted.  
"Seven. Your turn."  
"How long did I sleep for?"  
"Long enough. Please take your turn. This thing hates me."  
"It doesn't hate you."  
"Yes he does." With a solemn expression, he held the crying kitten out to her.  
Sighing, she took the cat, glancing around, "Where's his food?"  
"On the counter." Drained, he fell face first onto the bed, already having stripped off his shirt and pants.  
"Okay. Thanks." Still half-asleep, she mumbled the words, kissing the side of his head. "I'll get you in a few hours?"  
He grunted as way of reply, not wanting to be awake any longer. Sighing, she carried the crying kitten downstairs, searching for his bottle. One more day. Only a few hours left. They would make it.

…

She couldn't remember what it felt like to have free time to just… do things. Sighing, she rubbed at her eyes, glad to have time to rest. As cute as it had been, she was glad to be able to hand the cat off. He had insisted upon bringing the cat to the clinic himself, telling her to rest. Not one to argue with that logic, she agreed, but had decided to cook something nice for dinner, as a way of thanks. He had made his feelings very clear, and despite her promises that it would be her problem, he had helped her anyway. He wasn't always terrible, not when he didn't want to be.  
Before she had finished, however, she heard the car pull back into the drive. Frowning, she checked the clock; he shouldn't be back so soon. There was the click of a door opening and then the sound of his footsteps, interlaced with the sound of high-pitched mewing. Coming into the kitchen, he stood, facing her, the cat held in his hands.  
"I thought you-"  
"No good."  
"They wouldn't take him?"  
"No, the clinic itself was no good. I didn't like it."  
"What's wrong with it?"  
"Doesn't matter. We'll just have to find another."  
"Alright, she sighed. "Here, I'll feed him."  
"I got it," he nodded towards the counter, "You just focus on feeding us."  
"Deal," she smiled, feeling her exhaustion sink anew.

…

It had only been three days, and already she was past the point of exhaustion. She squinted her eyes shut, praying for the day that they could finally feed him every three hours instead of two.  
"Your turn," he tapped her arm with a tired sigh.  
She groaned, "Okay. Where's he at?"  
"Arson's downstairs."  
Opening her eyes, she blinked slowly, "Pardon?"  
"The cat's downstairs."  
"Well that was one hell of a Freudian slip."  
"No—Arson—that's his name."  
"He has a name now?" She couldn't hide the exasperation from her voice.  
Benignly, he shrugged, "We've got to call him something until we're rid of him."  
"No, you don't understand," she held her hands out, frantic. "Once you name an animal, you can't get rid of it!"  
"Why not?"  
"I don't know! Science!"  
"Wow, you are tired, aren't you?"  
"No, I'm telling you, you won't be able to leave him now!"  
"We'll see about that. You drastically underestimate my abilities."  
Standing up, she groaned, "God damn it. I can't believe this."

…

Almost exactly twenty four hours later, he came back in the front door, looking rather guilty.  
She raised her head from where she had been sleeping, looking at him, "Well?"  
"The good news is he doesn't have rabies or ringworm."  
"The bad news?"  
"We have to bring him in next week for his shots."  
"The shelter won't take him?"  
"They…" he cleared his throat, looking away. "No good. Terrible. Probably a drug front."  
"Okay," she sighed, resigned. "Alright. Give me the cat."  
"He'd prefer it if you called him by his name."  
"Ha. Purrfur." She grimaced, massaging her temple, "Wow, I really am tired. Okay, give me Arson." She sighed, "God, that sounds awful."  
"For what it's worth, they're amazed he's so healthy." Sitting beside her, he gently handed her the tiny scoundrel.  
"Of course he is. We're great cat guardians."  
"Quite," he smiled, stroking back her hair. She sighed, leaning into the touch. Equally as exhausted, he collapsed beside her, both of them groaning as Arson began to cry to be fed.  
"Alright. Guess I'm up,"  
Tilting her face towards himself, he kissed her softly. Smiling, she kissed him back, relaxing into the kind touch.  
"Your hair's an absolute mess, just so you know."  
"I'm aware."  
"I like it."  
"Yeah?"  
"Yeah," he kissed her again, surrendering to the giddy exhaustion in his chest.  
"You were right, you know."  
"Pardon?"  
"This was a terrible idea."  
"Yeah, well." He brushed her hair behind her ear, kissing her forehead, "it was your terrible idea. So. What else could I do?"  
"Thanks."  
"Of course. Now please," he kissed her again, quick and chaste, "go feed the beast."  
"Come along, Arson," she lifted the crying kitten, smiling, carrying him into the kitchen. Sighing, he stretched his arms out along the back of the couch, falling into a feather light contented sleep.


	30. Kiss under a full moon

"I'm surprised at you; aren't you supposed to know about stuff like this?"  
"Since when?"  
"You love weird stories and science. It just seems right up your alley."  
"Well, I apologize for my unbelievable ignorance," she scoffed, mock offended. "I don't suppose you're a space aficionado?"  
"Of course I am. It comes with the territory."  
"The territory?"  
"Of being the greatest lover in modern history."  
"I hate you so much."  
"But seriously, look," leaning his head closer to hers, he gestured upwards in a vague pattern. "That's… the…" looking around, he tried to cover his lie, "clover."  
"The clover?" She scrunched her nose, trying to see what he was supposed to be seeing.  
"Yes. It's supposed to be good luck."  
"Good luck?" Looking at him, she cocked her eyebrow.  
"Yes. It's said to bring good fortune to those looking to… get lucky."  
"Fuck you."  
"Language. But speaking of which, there-" he gestured loosely towards the horizon, "is The Entwined Lovers."  
"You're full of shit."  
"Well, not all of the parts of it are visible because of light pollution and all that," he shrugged. "But it comes from a Thai myth about the creation of the world."  
"Serious?" She looked at him, almost impressed.  
Feeling brave, he nodded, "Oh sure. The Nordic sailors also used it to navigate. But they, of course referred to it as the Backwards Goat."  
"Backwards Goat?"  
He was losing her again. Swiftly, he began nodding, "Horrible legend. Terrifying. They had quite the skill at telling bloody stories."  
"You'll have to tell me sometime."  
"Sometime, but not tonight. Maybe a better story for tonight. Like…" he glanced about, trying to find something, "the… Tower. Super old story."  
"Oh yes?" She smirked, looking at him.  
He nodded gravely, "Yes. Long story, filled with lots of death, deceit, and robbery. And sex. Tons of sex."  
"Right here?" She gestured upwards.  
Nodding nonchalantly, he continued, "Yeah, right about there. That star there is part of the omega cluster. See, here's the tower," he gestured abstractly, "and here's the… foundation and… whatnot."  
"Whatnot, huh? Sounds official."  
"Pardon me for not being a poet all the time."  
"How old is this story?"  
"A few centuries at least."  
"Yeah?" Shifting closer to him, she nestled her head against his neck. "How do you know so much?"  
"I told you; it's my job as a master of romance."  
"Do you have a favorite?"  
"Probably the… Woodpecker." He traced out a lopsided shape. "It's easy to find, you just need to find the eye first."  
"Which ones that?"  
"The particularly bright one, right there," he pointed.  
"Wow, I have a lot to learn."  
"Don't beat yourself up about it, my Dear. Not everyone can be a genius. In her unfathomably gentle way, she touched the side of his face, tilting it until he was looking at her, and then, equally as soft, her lips touched his, and it was bliss. He let his hand slip over her waist, and then she was laying back in the grass, her hair fanning beneath her, a fallen part of the dark sky. She kissed him, fingers cupping his face, warm and lovely, a sigh sending chills down his spine. For a moment, he almost felt bad about tricking her, but then she kissed the side of his face, her lips tracing a slow trail down to his jaw.  
"You know I know you're full of shit, right?"  
"Pardon?"  
"Omega cluster?"  
"It's a real thing!"  
"Potentially, but it wouldn't be that one. That's a planet."  
"I knew that."  
"Did you?"  
"You believed me for awhile though, didn't you?"  
"I have to admit, you almost had me going."  
"In that case, should I continue?"  
"By all means. I want to hear the brutal history of The Tower."  
"Sure you wouldn't rather hear about the…" he gestured to a vague corner, "Conniving Wife?"  
"I'll stick with The Tower, but thanks."  
"Alright," kissing her again, he smiled before laying beside her. "So the entire story starts a long time ago…"


	31. Giggly kiss

"Shh! Shh shh shh!" She kissed him as she shushed him, smiling so wide he ended up kissing her teeth instead.  
"Why? Am I such a dreadful secret?" Teasing her, he lifted her at the waist, searing her upon the counter.  
"Quiet! You have to be quiet!" Unsuccessfully, she tried to keep her voice serious, but broke into another laugh, muddling the sound with her hand.  
"Okay. Quiet," he whispered back, causing both of them to snicker again.  
"Here. Give it- give it to me," she reached for the bottle he was clutching.  
"I don't know. Do you think you can handle it?" Pulling it out of her reach, he cocked his eyebrow playfully.  
"The question is," lilting a bit to the side, she caught her balance, overcorrected, and then pressed a jabbing finger to his chest, "Can YOU?"  
"Good question. Amazing question. The answer is yes," taking her hand, he desperately tried to maintain his own balance, "I can handle most things."  
"Okay, so. So what's the thing you can handle the least?"  
"Aren't we supposed to be kissing? You promised me kissing."  
"Okay, here's some kissing," she pressed her lips to his, tasting very much of whatever deadly concoction it was inside the aged bottle. "NOW. Answer the question."  
"Are we not being quiet anymore?"  
"Oh!" She hit her hands against his shoulders, holding onto him. "Right! I meant," she lowered her voice comically, "Answer the question." He laughed, unable to contain it, and she quickly kissed him, trying to muffle the sound. "Quiet! Quiet!"  
"Why are we being quiet? I'm not a big fan."  
"Because, they," she waved vaguely towards the door, "will get jealous and peek maybe."  
"They might anyway. We could pretend to be in a fight?"  
"Will that work?"

"I DON'T KNOW, WILL IT?" He yelled the words, angrily furrowing his brow before breaking into a quiet restrained laugh. Drawing her shoulders up, she pressed her fingers to her mouth, giggling.  
"I DON'T KNOW. ANSWER THE DAMN QUESTION!"  
Holding a finger up, he took a swig from the bottle before passing it to her, "YOU KNOW WHAT I CAN'T HANDLE? I CAN'T HANDLE YOU!" Tears starting in her eyes from holding back laughter, she burrowed her face against his shoulder.  
"YOU'RE DRUNK!" The words were muffled against his shirt.  
"SO ARE YOU!"  
"I GUESS WE ARE FIGHTING THEN! YOU BASTARD MAN!"  
"FUCK!"  
"Okay," still giggling, she kissed him, wrapping her arms behind his neck to hold on, "I think that worked."  
"We are so good at this," nodding seriously, he kissed her, whispering the words against her mouth.  
"We're such great actors."  
"Well, one of us is."  
"Come on, don't sell yourself short." She laughed again, amused at her own terrible joke, and he didn't have it in him to be more than vaguely offended.  
Still smirking, he pulled her close to himself, kissing her over and over, feeling the beautiful hairpin turn of her lips as she laughed, the sound quiet, nestling deep in his chest, a gift just for him.


	32. I do kiss

Kitlaf prompt

...

Frantic, he wiped his hands on his pants. Were palms supposed to get this sweaty? It seemed excessive. Of course, the knowledge that he was marrying the love of his life was nice, but every time he thought about it, he felt his nerves shoot through his body, making him nauseous with anxiety. While he usually didn't mind being the center of attention, this seemed entirely too much. There were too many people here, and all of them were looking at him. He didn't even have the protection of a character to hide behind; they were all waiting for him to be himself. He wiped his hands again.  
Obvious perks aside, this was a pretty Shakespearean revenge. The only relief to the tension was the knowledge that her brother would have to sit there, watching him kiss his sister. Tomorrow morning, he would be irrefutably able to shut down whatever that idiot boy said with "And I banged your sister." It was going to be awesome. Not that that was the only good thing about marrying her, it was just a lovely side effect. Every holiday for the rest of his life would be spent smirking across the dinner table, waiting for an opportunity to pull that out. He had finally won.  
She met his eyes and his stomach made a respectable attempt at hurtling itself through his brain. Discreetly wiping his hands one last time, he took hers, hoping she didn't notice how sweaty his were. The presider fed them the vows; standard things, common. Wealth and poverty, friend and foe, accomplice and ardor. The same things everyone said. He had tried to let them write his own, but it was deemed "too much of a liability." Those bastards.  
She smiled, her teeth a perfect reflection of the ivory lace of her gown, and he had to physically restrain himself from just kissing her there. A few minutes. He only had to wait a few minutes. Unable to hear over the ringing in his ears, he hoped he hadn't stumbled over the words too badly. She, still smiling, repeated back whatever the fuck they were supposed to be saying with a perfect clarity. She promised to love him from general works to geography, tightening her fingers against his, and it was bliss.  
And then, as if he needed permission, the presider said he could kiss her, and not even hell could stop him. All at once it didn't matter that people were watching; let them watch. All he had was her hands in his, and then his hands were cupping her face, and hers were touching his waist, and all they were were fingers reaching towards one another, wanting and so desperately, desperately alive. He kissed her, craning her face up towards his, feeling the smile of her lips pressed to his, his chest becoming a giddy, bubbling thing. He kissed her, certain that if eternity had a taste, this would be it; the waxy balm of her lipstick, soft caress of her hair. For a moment, he became aware he had been kissing her too long, but who had time to care? She was a fire he would go blind staring into, a letter he would read over and over again, a patch of earth he desperately longed to dig his hands into. And she was his. Forever. For the rest of his life, she would be at his arm, falling asleep against his shoulder, kissing his undeserving lips. She was bliss incarnate, and as she eased off her toes, she smiled, finally his.


	33. I've missed you kiss

"How did it go?" She glanced back over her shoulder at him. He grumbled a vague response, yanking off his jacket and letting it drop to the kitchen floor. "That bad?"  
"Complete and utter waste of time. Idiots, all of them."  
"What took so long then? You've been gone all day."  
"I had to speak very slowly to get anything done at all." Disgruntled, he came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, watching as she diced some leafy vegetable.  
"You poor thing; no one has ever suffered as you have."  
"Honestly. I'm a tragic figure, Darling."  
"Misunderstood. Mistreated."  
"Just general misery. And then, after it all, I come home only to find my wife is trying to feed me vegetables."  
"Want to trade next time? I would love a chance to disappear all day only to come back bemoaning my boring fate."  
"I don't think they're quite ready to have you set upon them yet."  
"What does that say about you then?"  
"I've had years of acclimation. They'd be wholly unprepared."  
"Element of surprise."  
"Element of something, alright." Leaning over, he pressed a stiff kiss to the side of her face.  
"You'll have better luck next time."  
"Luck has nothing to do with it. Next time I'll blackmail the right people."  
"Of course," she shook her head, smirking. "The house was so quiet without you."  
"What is that supposed to mean?"  
"It's not supposed to mean anything. I'm just saying, it was almost eerie."  
"You miss me?"  
"I didn't say that."  
"I missed you. Spent all day thinking about you."  
"Yeah?"  
"How could I not? I was surrounded by irritants and naysayers."  
"You bastard!" She turned to smack his arm but he caught her, laughing.

Still smiling, he pulled her into a kiss, making her stretch to her toes to reach. Still miffed, she kissed him back, although she did have to admit it was funny.  
"You're the worst."  
"I know, I know. Poor suffering Violet."  
"You're lucky I tolerate you."  
"I already told you," pulling her close, he kissed her again, satisfied, "luck has nothing to do with it."


	34. Needing to hide from the bad guys kiss

Pre-schism AU

...

Glancing around frantically, she scanned the crowd, looking for god-knows-what, "Okay! Okay. We need to hide."  
"Where!?" He whispered the word angrily through his grit teeth.  
"I don't know, we just-" glancing behind them, she took his hand, pulling him along.  
"How on earth did you fuck up so badly?"  
"Quiet! Not helpful, and not my fault!"  
"Absolutely your fault! Seriously, how do-" his words cut off as she skidded to a stop, gripping his arm to tug him the other way.  
"Dead end. Try again."  
"If after everything I've lived through, I go down because of some rookie's mistake-"  
"Not my mistake, and not my fault! Drop it!"  
"I'll drop if it we get out, but until then-"  
"Then at least shut up and let me think!"  
"I swear to god-"  
"Here!" she tugged him through an open doorway into a kitsch and uncomfortably full bar.  
"You have GOT to be kidding."  
"Not kidding." Still dragging him along, she slid into an empty booth in the back, pulling him in after her.  
"And how the hell are we supposed to-"  
"Voice down. It's fine."  
"What part of this is fine? I swear, you-"  
"Look, they only saw me, okay? It's fine!"  
"Fine?!" At her warning look, he lowered his voice back to an aggravated hiss, "How is it even remotely fine? Just so you know, I am NOT coming after your sorry ass if they find you!"  
"Would you just-" Suddenly she froze, her head cocked towards the door, "Shit-"  
"What-"  
She hit his arm as he began to turn to look. "Stop it!"  
"Okay, first of all, ow!" he gestured out, barely restraining himself from just handing her over.  
"Sorry, sorry! Okay, I'll duck under the table-" As she talked, he glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the men start looking about the room.  
"Better plan." Taking advantage of the opportunity fate had ordained fit to bestow him with, he grabbed her face, pulling her into a kiss.

Surprised and more than a bit caught off guard as he interrupted her mid-sentence, she accidentally bit his lip, causing his fingers to tighten against her face.  
"Relax," he muttered. Flustered, she did her best to unclench. Even if they didn't recognize her, she didn't need anyone to think they had to come to her rescue. Gingerly, she began to untense, and was quite surprised to find that the experience wasn't entirely unpleasant. As horrible as he was as a partner, he wasn't so bad as a kisser. Without entirely meaning to, her hand rested against his neck, pulling him towards herself. Carefully, he slid his own hand down to her side, easing her back until she was comfortably hidden in the shadows of the bar, tucked within the maze of vinyl-cushioned booths. The warmth of his palms seeped beneath her dress, flickering a primal instinct to get closer, to get more. It was undeniably nice, unbearably nice. And then his hand moved to the small of her back, and she felt her fingers tighten in his hair. He pressed firmer against her and she parted her lips, shoving down a moan. Not giving it any more thought, she let herself melt into his touch, into his care. His lips were so incredibly careful against hers, soft and uncharacteristically kind. The firm back of the seat pressed against her side, just uncomfortable enough to keep her present while also encouraging the fantasy of leaning back, letting his hands wander wherever they might. There was an unquestioned certainty to the way he held her, the way he moved her the way he wanted, to where he wanted. He kissed her lips, the flushed heat of him pulsing inside her, making her embarrassed at the swift quickness with which it was accomplished. He cupped her face, craned her neck, disastrously wonderful and perfectly lovely. The tip of her tongue itched to push past his lips, and just when she had made up her mind to do it, he broke the kiss, catching her breath to catch unevenly.  
"Okay?" His voice was low, warm.  
"I- Yeah."  
"They're gone?"  
"Oh," she glanced over his shoulder, looking around. "Yes. They're gone."  
"Perfect," relieved, he leaned back. "Sorry about that."  
"No, sorry for… biting you."  
"More than alright." He smirked, running a hand through his hair. "You're a pretty good actor. You ever look into theater?"  
"What? No." She shook her head, trying to dislodge the lingering memory.  
"You should. Mechanics? Please. Your skills are being wasted."  
"I wouldn't say that."  
"Someone should." Still smirking, he glanced behind himself nonchalantly. "Alight, let's go before we push our luck too far."  
"Yes. Good. Thanks."  
"Don't mention it." Standing, he took her by the hand, tugging her along behind him. Less than reluctantly, she followed.


	35. Public kiss

College AU, baby!

...

She wasn't jealous. She wasn't. It was acting, and shitty acting at that. She didn't care. And yet, she found herself with fists clenched, anger broiling within her.  
She applauded the show, only rolling her eyes when he couldn't see. He was elated, drinking in the applause, only letting his eyes dust over her for a moment, settling warm and mischievous before moving on. She felt her heart rise as a lump in her throat, choking her.

"Seems you were the only one who cared for the extra credit," he smirked, meeting her in the lobby of the playhouse.  
"There were others, I saw them at intermission."  
"And they didn't care to stick around?"  
"Evidently not," she shrugged, maintaining a facade of indifference.  
"Well. I look forward to reading your paper on tonight's performance."  
"About that," she, boldly, took his arm, letting him guide her through the adoring crowd. "I have an awfully busy weekend-"  
"Oh?" He cocked his eyebrow.  
"And was wondering if I could have an oral exam instead." She looked away nonchalantly, as if she wasn't nymphood incarnate.  
"I suppose that could be arranged," he smirked. "Really, I must commend your studious nature, Miss Baudelaire."  
"Well, the subject is entertaining enough, if challenging."  
"You have my sincere agreement," he stopped to shake someone's hand, smiling.

She watched him, the vain creature, soaking in the praise. On the other side of the hall, the leading lady was accepting similar, if undeserved, praises. She fought the urge to scowl as some women tittered about him excitedly. A woman posed for a photo with him, touching his chest. Her heart burned within her. For once giving up the desire to act older than she was, she allowed herself her pettiness, stepping close to his side. He didn't protest, though he did take a moment to glance about the room.  
"Everything alright?" He spoke at a level only she could hear.  
"You'll have to pardon me if I'm not so keen on sharing," she spoke the words through a smile, masking her true envy.  
"Don't deny me my laurels. I'm an artist, Darling."  
"Should I leave you to your fans then?"  
"Come now. Let them have their fun."  
"They can have theirs so long as they stay away from mine."  
"I can't decide if I should take you to shows more or less often."  
Sighing, she let go of him.

Going out was dangerous; they had to be careful. She, however, seemed intent upon throwing caution to the wind, reckless in her single-mindedness. It wasn't that he didn't want every person possible to see her in his company, but it did create the very real possibility of them being caught.  
"While I must admit I don't actually mind you jealous, don't go forgetting yourself." he spoke to her without looking directly at her.  
"Why? Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?" Her voice was light, but the words were heavy.  
"Embarrassed? Never. Just a bit concerned about your utter lack of discretion."  
"Discretion? Is there anything so terrible about a student and teacher conversing?"  
"Conversing? No. But you know I have little practice in denying myself my wants."  
"Then I best hope none of the chorus girls strike your fancy."  
"Oh, please. You're well aware I have a type."  
"Which is?"  
"Nosy little bookworms."  
"Really? You haven't a weakness for girls in short skirts?" Her hand brushed against his.  
"Of course I do, particularly when they're both stubborn and relentlessly unkind."  
"Am I unkind?"  
"Wearing that dress was very unkind indeed, knowing I'd not be able to touch you."  
"Why not? Who's here to see?"  
Looking around, he realized she was quite right; it was a risk, but a calculated one. They were in a crowd of strangers. She bit her lip.  
Leaving his wits behind him, he caught her in his arms, smiling as he kissed her. Let people look, let them talk. She was his, the terrible little thing.

"Better now?" He smirked as he broke the kiss.  
"Much," smoothing his lapels, she eased off the balls of her feet, feeling satisfied if a bit silly.  
"Good," lacing an arm behind her, he led her towards the door. "Now, about that exam."


	36. True love kiss

"Thank you for the offer, but I'll just die instead."  
"Seriously?" He cocked his eyebrow. "I understand that it's a long shot, but-"  
"No, I'm good." Her breath hissed between her teeth as she felt the poison in her hand, the burn spreading to her wrist. She didn't have much time at all. Great, she was going to spend her last moments alive arguing. Perfect. Just perfect.  
"You're not even willing to try?"  
"Nope."  
"You'd really rather die than even entertain the possibility? You're that stubborn?"  
"Absolutely."  
"It might work!"  
"That is easily the worst case scenario."  
"Well that's just rude."  
"Look, either I have to die with the worst memory possible, or I live with the knowledge that-" she winced as the pain spread to her shoulder. "Just let me die with dignity, okay?"  
"This is unbelievable!"  
"I don't see why you're actively trying to make my last moments even worse."  
"I hate you so much."  
"If it makes you feel any better," she opened her eyes, looking at him, "I can definitively say you were the bane of my existence."  
"You really want those to be your last words to me?"  
"I'd much prefer to say nothing at all, but if this is my last chance," she strained as the burn reached her chest, "I suppose you ought to know…" reaching up, she touched his cheek somberly, cradling it, "how incredibly untalented you are."

"You know what? Fuck you!" Grabbing her head, he pressed his lips to hers roughly. Startled, she reacted quickly, smacking his arm. Not willing to let go until he had tried, or at least succeeded in pissing her off one last time, he held on.  
She continued to hit him as he broke the kiss, "You jerk! Now I have to die thinking about that!"  
"Serves you right. Besides, no one should die without knowing what it's like to kiss a genius."  
"I won't miss you!"  
"You weren't exactly easy to deal with either."  
"To be fair, you didn't give me much to work with."  
"Handsome, talented, and charming? What part wasn't good enough for you?"  
"You're really going to make me, on my deathbed, listen to you bragging? I guess I'll die as a lived."  
"Are you scared?"

She didn't expect the honesty of the question. She shrugged, "More pissed off than anything."  
"Oh come on! You know I had to-"  
"Not just at you. It's…" she sighed, "it's kind of a bullshit way to go, isn't it?"  
"It absolutely is." He leaned his weight back against his arm, sitting beside her. "Most things are."  
"I can't believe I have to die like this."  
"Would you prefer it if I left? Let you die alone in peace?"  
"No. It wouldn't be in peace, so you might as well stay."  
"Are you going to haunt me?"  
"Not if I have any say in the matter."

He smirked, amused. She was so consistent, even at the end. She closed her eyes. Gently, he began to stroke back her hair.  
"Can I ask you something?"  
"Who am I to deny you your last request?"  
"Did you really think that was going to work? Do you-"  
"Of course not," he shook his head. "I have standards."  
"Be honest."  
"I am." He paused, quiet. "Things will be so boring now."  
She scoffed, smirking, "Missing me already?"  
"Who else is going to put so much effort into antagonizing me?"  
"I'm sure you'll find someone. You're a very dislikable man."  
"Thank you for your kind words, but no. I'm afraid there's no one left that's quite my equal."  
"You consider me your equal?"  
He hesitated. The girl was dying, what harm could the truth do now? "Yes."  
"That's… actually incredibly kind of you to say."  
"Yes, well," he shrugged, "guess I'll just have to go uncontested from now on." They sat in silence. He looked around the room, "No offense or anything, but, uh, how much time are we talking here?"  
"Seriously?"  
"I mean, is it mere seconds or days?"  
"Gee, sorry for not dying fast enough for you."  
"I'm just wondering-"  
"What? You got some juicy line you're waiting until the last moment to share? Some big secrets to reveal?"  
"Do you want some?"  
"If you have them, sure."  
"I'll try to think of something."  
"I appreciate it."  
"It's the least I can do." Again, they lapsed into silence. He was just about to check her breathing when she spoke again.  
"You sure you won't miss me?"  
"I won't lie, my life is about to become drastically easier."  
"Now you're just flattering me."  
"No, I'm serious. For what it's worth, you-" he paused, unsure how to carry the weight in his chest, "were the bane of my existence too."  
"Wow. I suppose I really ought to give you more credit for trying to save me then."  
"Oh, it was an entirely selfish motivation."  
"Yes?"  
"I was just jealous that I didn't get to be the one who killed you."  
She snorted, smiling, "Oh, of course."  
"I suppose you were right though. God, what would we have done if it had actually worked? It would ruin everything."  
"Everything?"  
"Everything."  
Opening her eyes again, she looked up at him, sighing sadly, flexing her arm stiffly, "I suppose I have some bad news for you, then."


	37. Lazy morning kisses

"Oh god."  
"Yeah."  
"So bright."  
"I know."  
"Holy fuck," he squinted against the light, feeling it radiate within his head as an explosion. "What time-"  
"Don't know."  
"You?"  
"Survivable." Sighing, she rolled onto her back, her eyes pinched. "How much-"  
"Don't know."

The light pulsed, burned. Still exhausted, she pressed her face to the crook of his neck, trying to garner some more darkness. Slowly, stiffly, he brought his hand up to pet the back of her head. Gently, he kissed the side of her face.  
"What time-"  
"Not till noon."  
"Perfect," he kissed her again. Lazily, she lifted her head enough to kiss him back. She smiled as she did so, still wincing against the early morning light.  
Sighing, he rubbed her shoulder, placing a limp arm over his eyes in a futile effort to darken the room.  
She hesitated, reluctant to shatter the silence. "Should we-"  
"No."  
"Good plan." Resigned to making a waste of the morning, she closed her eyes again, feeling his lips alight upon her forehead. "Coffee?"  
"Can't you?" he groaned.  
"Please?" She kissed him again. "Pretty please?"  
"Fine." Sitting up stiffly, he cradled his head. "You owe me."  
"Thank you," sinking back into the pillows, she rolled over, taking his spot, grateful for the soft warmth.


	38. Alternative The End

Ko-Fi prompt for the lovely Eternallost who was kind enough to donate to my page!

M rating finally earned below

...

"Too good to talk to me, orphan?"  
Still staring straight at her work, she did her best to ignore him. The sooner she finished, the sooner she could leave, the sooner she'd never have to see him again. "I don't want to talk to you."  
"Oh come now, don't be so cold." She watched him from her periphery as he walked over, crossing his arms, "It's about time we became friends, don't you think?"  
"We're not friends."  
"But we should be, don't you think? Living in close quarters hasn't endeared you to me even a bit?"  
"What the hell do you want?" She didn't look at him, didn't want to acknowledge him.  
He chuckled. "Distrustful, are we?"  
She didn't like being alone with him. It wasn't that she was afraid of him; here, they were on equal ground. There was nothing he could do to her without almost certainly being killed himself. No, it wasn't fear. It was a sort of trepidation, a strange muffled siren ringing in her ears whenever he looked at her. As time had worn on, nothing had changed; he maintained a strange fixation, developing the annoying habit of intruding on her whenever possible. If she hadn't already lived her life in the shadow of paranoia, it would be terrifying. It was strange, to see your fears justified and then all wiped away. He couldn't hurt her without hurting himself, and so they reached what had ought to be regarded as a stalemate. He, however, insisted upon doing everything in his power to get himself as close to killed as possible. It was generally agreed he was a nuisance, an inconvenient fact of life. All the same, there was a certain edge to his brief conversations with that just didn't exist between the others. He had never lost his predator instincts, still regarded her silently when he thought she wasn't looking. Though she didn't want to let him bother her any more than he already had, she'd be a liar if she said it didn't keep her up at night.  
"Do you need something, or can I get back to my work?"  
"Need? No." Lazily he leaned against the side of the boat, getting exactly in her way.  
She grit her teeth, "Well then. If you wouldn't mind-"  
"It's so quiet, don't you think?" He glanced at her, a dark twinkle in his eye. She paused, listening. He was right; the silence of the day crept around her, made her aware of just how oppressively still it was. It wasn't a big island; he wouldn't be able to get away with anything, not really. Still, the isolation crawled along her skin, made thoughts dance along the back of her neck, zipping electric across her chest.  
"They'll be back soon."  
"Not for a few hours," still putting on a show of great boredom, he began inspecting his nails.  
"If you think-"  
"I'm not going to hurt you, you know. I can see you wondering. You're quite easy to read, you know," his voice lilted, treacherous and teasing.  
"I'm supposed to believe you?"  
"If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done so by now."  
"Gee, thanks," her tone rang with arsenic disgust. He wasn't wrong, though. He could have done anything by now; he certainly had time enough.  
"No need to be so cruel, dear. What would I gain from hurting you?" Sighing, he buffed his fingers against his shirt, looking at her again, "You are my favorite, after all."  
"That isn't a compliment."  
"We have a lot in common, you and I."  
"Now you're just being mean."  
"Feisty, are we? You know, there's no one here for you to impress with that bravado. I for one am quite tired of it."  
"Bravado?"  
"Let me give you a tip, one actor to another. You're overselling it." With a slow strut, he circled behind her.  
"I don't know what you're on about, but if you're through torturing me-"  
"Am I really be so terrible that you can't even speak to me?"  
"Do you want an honest answer?" Desperately, she tried to keep her voice from shaking.  
"Please, I'm sure we both can think of things much worse."  
"That's not an endorsement."  
He smirked, his fingers rolling individually over her shoulders until he was holding her firm between his hands. The faint call of sirens grew clearer, ringing in her ears, her heart racing. It was fear, she told herself; it was just fear. He couldn't do anything, there was no need to be so afraid. She felt her skin flush.  
"Is it really so terrible to have to speak with me?" His voice was a low purr, rough in her ear. She could feel how close his lips drew to her face and shuddered.  
"Yes."  
"See, I think you're lying, Violet. I don't think you think it's so very terrible at all. As a matter of fact, I think you're more afraid you'll like it." Slowly, his hand slunk up to her throat, his palm pressed warm and tight against the front of her neck.  
"You're delusional."  
"And you're awfully nervous for someone who claims not to be afraid."  
"I'm not."  
"Why do you insist on making everything so difficult for yourself?." He spoke the words against her skin. Embarrassed, she hoped he couldn't feel the pounding of her heart beneath his hand. "We've been here for so long. It's awful lonely, don't you think?" Determined to deny him, she stayed silent. "Things could be so much better if we worked together. Pooled our assets, in a way."  
"What do you want?"  
"I want to make you happy, dear."  
"Is that all?" Not bothering to hide the disbelief from her voice, she spoke with heavy animosity.  
He, frustratingly enough, simply chuckled, his grip growing tighter, "Of course not. Have you ever known me to be so altruistic?"  
"Then what are you after?"  
"I'm a simple man, Violet; a simple man with simple desires."  
"You know there's no way for me to claim my inheritance from here, so if you think-"  
"Oh, please. If you think that's the only thing I want from you, you're a fool."  
"What more could you possibly want?"  
"Don't be obtuse."  
Her heart knocked against her, "I'm not being anything." A gnarled fear sat heavy in her gut as he sighed.

"I thought you were supposed to be clever, but if you'd prefer the messy truth to the pleasantries of seduction, fine, have it your way. You want to know what I want, orphan?" Leaning in, he growled the words against her ear, tightening his grip, "I want to have my way with you, pretty thing." Slowly, he drew his other hand around to her stomach, pressing her flush against his chest. "I want to lay you out and ravish you, want to know how you look when I'm inside you. In short," testing her resolve, his hand began to drift upwards until he was delicately cupping the underside of her breast, fingers drawing soft patterns above the fabric, "I want to fuck you." His voice hissed from between his teeth, the side of his face pressed to hers. She gasped, startled and somewhat alarmed as he ground his hips forward against her, still holding her firm.  
"I don't- You don't-" the words caught on her tongue, her thoughts hazy and liquid as his fingers ran over the peak of her breast. "You hate me." The words came from a deep-seated festering place within her. He simply hummed his amusement.  
"Believe me, I'm well aware."  
"And that doesn't bother you?"  
"To the contrary, I think you will find it makes things quite… cathartic."  
"You're disgusting."  
"Please, can you blame me? You ought to be flattered I managed as long as I did. Seems quite impossible, doesn't it? Besides," vampiric, he nipped her neck, smirking, "I've noticed you've yet to tell me to stop."  
"You wouldn't listen."  
"You haven't tried. Although," bucking his hips forward again, he ground against her, "I'm not complaining. Like I said, things can get so very lonely here." Her breath caught again as he ran his thumb over her breast, catching her in an unexpected bout of pleasure. Embarrassed at her easy reaction, she scowled. "No one says you have to like me," his voice dripped honey-sweet, dulcet against her cheek, "just let me have my way. Let me make you feel very, very good."  
"Big talk," she managed to hiss from between her teeth.  
"And that's not all. I'll make you a deal; you let me fuck you, I'll let you tell me how much you hate me while I'm making you come."  
"You're sick."  
"I don't judge, darling." Spinning her quickly, he loped his hands behind her, gripping her ass as he walked her backwards towards the boat until she was pinned neatly against him. Swiftly, he kissed her, feeling the harsh edge of her teeth beneath her soft lips, the desire to ruin her burning all the more acutely within him.  
Pulling back much too late to be truly remorseful, she pressed her hands to his chest, pushing him away, "But don't-"  
He interrupted her unnecessary questions, shushing her softly. "Don't worry, orphan. Just sit back, enjoy yourself, and let me take care of the rest." Punctuating the sentiment, he lifted her, placing her upon the edge of the boat. Sliding his hands beneath her knees, he snapped her forward until he was pressed between her parted legs, the two of them chest to chest, his lips still on her mouth.  
"You're wicked," her words were muffled as she turned her face away.  
"Very much so," he kissed her throat, "Does that excite you, Violet?"  
"No," her voice was small, low. She was close to breaking.  
"Are you sure?" He slid his hands up her thighs, letting them tuck beneath the skirt of her dress. "Virtuous and noble Violet, always nice, always proper, always a good girl." She shivered as his fingers wandered further up, brushed at her hips. "And now here you are, alone with a bad man. A wicked man, you said? I can be wicked, that's okay." Airily, he drew his fingers in until he was brushing lightly between her legs. Her breath stuttered. "So why don't you be a good girl for me, and let me have my wicked way?"

"No, it's not right." Her eyes were shut tight, palms sweaty as she gripped his shirt.  
"No?" She could hear that he was smiling, but then his lips were brushing against her neck again, his tongue warm on the hollow of her throat. "How can you be so sure if you haven't even tried? Give me the chance, and I'll make it feel very, very right." Emboldened, he pressed his warm hand between her legs. The delicate heat of his fingers sank into her bones, tittered shrill and uncertain within her stomach. She gasped and he, feeding off her reaction, took the response as praise. "There we go, that's better." Still kissing her neck, he began to rub at her in smooth circles over the cloth, a pleased rumble growing in his chest as she tightened her grip against him. "That's a good girl." She whimpered, afraid and disgusted at the ease with which he coaxed blissful enjoyment from her, made her own body traitor against her. She wanted to want him to stop, wanted to hate it, but simply didn't. He seemed to know it too, gloating his power over her.

Gently, he began to tug at her waistband, urging her forward enough to allow him to slip her underwear over her thighs, down her legs. Her fingers grew sharp against him, stiff and afraid.  
"Relax," he spoke the words with a contented purr against her reddened skin. "This won't hurt a bit."  
She shuddered as he touched her, a gasp parting her teeth. Still gentle, still restrained, he ran his fingers along her, noting with pride that despite her protests to the contrary, she was very excited indeed. Half-heartedly, he tried to suppress the nearly overwhelming desire to simply bend her over then and there, feel her fold beneath him. Listening to her sharp gasps, he drew in a deep breath, gritting his teeth against the urge. She would be so easy to have, to hurt.  
Slowly, he pressed a finger inside her, leaning back to watch her face. She didn't disappoint, lips parting to reveal her pink tongue, eyes downcast. Gentle, he began to steadily thrust it inside her, amused when her perfect lip caught between her teeth as she momentarily forgot herself. But then she was shutting her eyes again, her brow furrowed, and he couldn't help but smirk at her stubbornness.  
"Just let go." He kissed the side of her face, amused when she turned away. Still careful, he began to pick up speed, glad when she groaned involuntarily, the sound followed by the so very charming flush of her skin. "Relax. Let yourself enjoy it."

He kissed her again, his lips tasting of stale liquor as softly, he began to press another finger inside her. Gasping, she felt her breath catch in her throat as he began thrusting in deep, rhythmic pulses.  
He smiled, watching her, and she couldn't meet his eyes. Her hands shook, bones threatening to combust.  
"See?" He spoke in a patronizingly placating murmur. "Us bad men aren't so terrible."  
"You are." She managed the words through clenched teeth, but he simply cocked his eyebrow, smiling.  
"Am I now? You must like your men bad then, with how nice and wet you got for me." A shine grew in his eye as his smirk turned into a smile. "You've imagined this before, haven't you, Violet? Imagined what it would feel like to be ruined by a bad man?" She didn't want to dignify him with an answer, but he took her silence as answer enough. "Tell me, when you imagine it, do you imagine yourself riding me, my cock already inside you, or do you prefer the thought of me bending you over and just having my way?"  
"You're despicable."  
"A third option, then? Maybe you like the thought of me pushing you up against a wall?"  
"Enough!"  
"Or do you like it like this, me between your legs, laying you out and fucking you so that you can see my face, know it's me?"  
"Oh my god-" her grip tightened again, lips parting as she rode through the orgasm that tumbled out of her. He didn't stop, continuing until she was leaning breathless against his shoulder.  
"See? Not so terrible at all." He spoke the words against the side of her face. "Bad men can be quite useful, especially for pretty orphans."  
"I don't-" she began to speak, but smirking, he shushed her. Gingerly, he drew his hand up, placing his fingers in his mouth, drawing them out slowly with a popping sound.  
"You're lost in the woods now, Little Red, and I may just have to eat you whole."  
She shivered, feeling very caught indeed as he wrapped his arms behind her, drawing her towards him, onto the ground. Pivoting her, he untied the back of her dress with a swift tug, followed by the snap of the button at the nape of her neck. Without waiting any longer, he gripped the skirt of her dress, tugging the fabric up and over her head. Just as quickly, he was holding her against himself as he ground his hips forward, pinning her against the boat's edge. She could feel his erection, stiff and imposing against her, his hand tucking again between her legs. Her knees buckled ever so slightly as she pressed her hands to the edge, trying to keep her balance. Evidently having run out of patience, his other hand came around her, gripping her breast. He kissed her neck, her shoulder, her ear, groaning his pleasure against her skin.  
"Careful," she winced as he held her breast too tightly, pinching the skin.  
"Of course," he muttered the words against her, slipping his hand beneath the fabric of her bra, sliding it off over her shoulders. His touch against her naked skin was static electric pulsing, a living network communicating desperate signals to the warm need pulsing inside her. He tucked his fingers between her legs, began rubbing at her again with frantic circles. She arched her back, cried out, felt her fingers tremble against the wood. His teeth pinched at her skin, his satisfaction evident as she unspooled, let him make her liquid marrow under his touch.  
She panted, her chest heaving with exhausted breath as he finally removed his fingers, catching her chin as he roughly kissed the side of her face.  
"Still think I'm entirely unkind? Entirely selfish?"  
"Yes," she managed the word with some difficulty.  
"Well then. I'm offended, honestly. Do you really think it's easy for me to prolong my own pleasure?" He stepped back ever so slightly, and then there was the sound of the metal of his belt, the hand gripping her chin still keeping her in place. "I'm not used to not getting what I want."  
"Perhaps you should be."  
"It would have been easy, you know," he continued as if she hadn't interrupted. She could feel the rhythmic brush of the back of his hand as he began to stroke his erection, pressing his chest to her. "Unbelievably easy," his voice was a hiss against her ear. She shuddered. "Not as fun, though. Is that how you imagined it? Me, crawling beneath your blankets at night, slipping between your legs?"

He leaned forward ever so slightly, feeling her bend beneath his weight. He smiled. "Or perhaps you spent some of those hours, hours you told us you were hard at work, touching yourself in here, wishing I would come in and take what I wanted. Is that what you want, orphan?"  
"No," her voice was soft, quiet.  
"Speak up," turning her face, he made her look at him, surprised to see resolve still lingering in her gaze.  
"No. Why would you assume I'd ever have a fantasy about you losing control?"  
"Control?" He smirked, delighted. "Interesting word choice. What do you want, then?" Leaning down, he pressed his lips to her naked chest, letting his tongue slide over her. His teeth grazed against her erect nipple, pulling a soft groan out from deep within her. He kneaded the tender skin, leaving a trail of purple rosebuds in his wake.  
"I- I don't-" Her words were interrupted as she cried out, a whine spooling in the back of her throat.  
"Don't bother lying, it'll only make things more unpleasant for you."  
"Something more careful. Not so rough."  
"Something more careful," he repeated her words back to her, tasting them. "You want me to make love to you, orphan?"  
"Don't say that!" She flushed, irate and embarrassed.  
"Good, we're making some progress," elated, he kissed her again. "Don't worry, dear, I'll fuck you nice and slow." As he kissed her, he felt her trembling hands clutch his shirt. "Is that what you want?" She didn't reply, whimpering against his lips instead. Slowly, he began to unbutton his shirt, letting his clothes hang loose about him.  
Stepping forward, he moaned as his erection pressed against her leg. She gasped, allowing him the space to slide his tongue into her mouth. His hand pressed firm to her naked breast, relishing the sensation of soft skin, her complete surrender.  
"Slow," she groaned, craning her neck.  
"Of course. Trust me, I know what I'm doing." Gently, he began to press himself inside her, feeling her tense at the sensation. "Relax," he hissed between his teeth, feeling the way her arms tightened against him.

Desperately, she tried to force herself to relax. He pushed further inside her and she gasped, hands catching behind his neck.  
"Shh, you're alright," he spoke quietly, his voice strained. "You're fine." The moment her breathing evened, he pressed further in, drawing a whimper from deep inside her, her back arching up to meet him. His breath shook as he slid further in, smiling at her reaction. For a terrifying moment she wondered how he could possibly fit, considered telling him to stop, but then he thrust the remainder of the way inside her with a moan, causing her to cling to him, crying out. "There we go, good girl," he groaned the words against her face. "Nice and tight and wet for me."  
She groaned again as he began to thrust in short, slow strokes. She could feel him moving inside her, filling her, stretching her. She whimpered, prompting another shush as his fingers came back down betwixt her legs, stroking her lovingly. "Such a pretty little thing." And then his strokes became faster, his thrusts gradually getting deeper as he sped up. She gasped, her hands still clutching his arms, unwillingly enjoying the tight way he held her.

He tried to memorize every sensation, every moment. She kissed him back, let him press his tongue behind her teeth, surrendered to him. Her hands touched his naked skin, breasts delightfully soft against his chest as she gasped, moaning her pleasure. She was his, finally his. After years of wanting, he finally had her. And she was delicious, victory sugar-sweet on his tongue as she cried out, breathless and bare before him. He let his hands wander her body, finally satiating his near-constant desire, the curiosities that had itched in the back of his mind. She clung to him, her thighs pressing to his waist, uninitiated, unadulterated. He loved the thought of ruining her. Roughly, he shoved his tongue further into her mouth, wanting to taste her surrender.  
"How does it feel, Violet? How does it feel to let yourself be fucked by a bad man?" She didn't respond, her grip on him tight. "How does it feel knowing I won? Knowing you spread your pretty little legs for my cock?" He tangled his fingers in her hair, craned her neck back so that she had to look at him, "Knowing you'll spend the rest of your life wanting the man you hate to fuck you?"  
Her eyes shone dark, her voice low, breathy as she spoke, broken up by the jagged rhythm of their bodies,"If I hated you so much, I wouldn't be here. Face it, here, you don't matter nearly as much as you think." He growled, his teeth grit tight in anger. She laced her hands behind his neck, cried out, let her nails dig into his skin. When she pressed the side of her face to his, her breath was warm against him, "How does it feel to finally be irrelevant?"  
"Damn you!" he hissed the words against her shoulder. But then it was too late, and clenching his fingers, he came. His climax arrived without his consent, gave her the last word on the matter. Well, she could say whatever she wanted; she'd still be speaking to the man who fucked her. He'd win eventually.

She sighed as he pulled out, surprised to find her muscles already relaxed, delightfully unwound. Slowly, he released her, both of them blinking into the light of what had just transpired. Removing his fingers from her hair, he tucked a strand behind her ear.  
"Watch your mouth," he spoke quietly, tilting her chin up to kiss her lips, "or I might just have to make use of that smart tongue of yours."  
His words sent shivers down her spine, delicious warm shivers that lodged in her throat. She tucked the memory away to be recounted later. "We'll see. I may not be so kind the next time you come begging."  
"That's where we differ. Because I'm just so charitable, you can come beg me to fuck you anytime." He perused her smugly, "I'd be happy to provide a warm bed for any pretty little orphans who happen to find their way into my room."

"You seem awfully certain."  
"Yes, well," he smirked, cold and amused, "call it fate, darling. All I know is that even good girls get lonely sometimes." Dropping his hand, he cocked his eyebrow, smirking. "And when you do, I'll be here."  
"It doesn't mean anything, you know."  
"Of course not. So what's stopping you?" he began to resituate his clothes, gratified.  
"The thought of sleeping with someone so heinous."  
"Of course. You keep touching yourself and telling yourself that. When you're done lying," he unrolled his sleeves, straightening his collar, "you know where to find me." Pivoting slowly, he walked out of the room, unable to keep the satisfied smile off his face.


	39. New Years Kiss

Pre-schism AU

...

"Not having fun?"

"Galas are boring," she shrugged.

Chuckling, he leaned against the wall beside her, surveying the crowd, "For a girl your age? Well then, what hope is there for the rest of us?"

Taking the glass of champagne he proffered, she took a sip, "If we're supposed to carry it, then you really ought to let young women plan it."

"Oh?" Smirking, he regarded her, taking back his glass, drinking thoughtfully. "And if you had planned the party, what might it look like?"

"More places to sit, for one. Less open space. Makes you feel like you have to talk to people."

"Don't like being sociable?"

"Not with everyone."

"Should I take that as a hint to go?"

"No," she glanced at him, "You can stay."

"Consider me honoured," he handed the champagne back to her.

Smiling, she scoffed before accepting the offer, taking another drink. "Don't have friends your age?"

"Unsurprisingly, no."

"Unsurprisingly?"

"Adults are boring, Violet." Taking the glass back, he finished it off.

"Am I really so much more vastly entertaining?"

"Always."

"I'll accept the compliment."

"Shall I get us another glass?" he held up the empty glass.

"Want to scout out a place to sit first?"

"Absolutely," he smiled.

Three glasses later, he was doing his damndest to remember himself. She, for her own part, was making the effort nearly impossible, what with the way she leaned back into the red sofa, the picture of enticement. Her skirt fell over her crossed legs, the soft fabric folding close to her skin. He briefly imagined how it would look should he push her into the fountain, but quickly gave over that train of thought, deeming it too dangerous.

Sighing, she pushed her hair back, swirling her glass lazily, "Not to be a broken record, but I disagree."

"Surprising no one."

"Hey," she glanced at him, a twinkle in her eye, "it's not my fault you're easy to disagree with."

"Fair enough." When she looked away, he gifted himself a moment of staring, soaking in the beautiful expanse of bare skin around her neck. "You know, I can't remember the last time I saw you dressed up."

"Couldn't have been more than a few months."

"It's a good look on you."

"Not very practical."

"Beauty rarely is." He saw the bridge of her nose flush ever so slightly at his comment. "I'm curious as to how you'd behave outside of work."

"We're never outside work."

"And therein lies the tragedy, damned to a professional relationship."

"As opposed to?"

"Given the chance, don't you think we might be friends?"

She scoffed again, "If we weren't stuck together, you'd never have even spoken to me."

"That's not true."

"No?" Cocking her eyebrow, she smiled, "What would you have said? Play it out for me."

"Now you're just teasing, Miss Baudelaire. I thought we taught you better than that."

"If I've learned anything from you, it isn't manners."

"Evidently."

"I'm serious, though. If we weren't co-workers, what would you think of me?"

"For starters, I think calling yourself my co-worker is a bit ambitious. You're more of an underling, three or four times removed. Second, I'd think," he perused her thoughtfully, "that you were a very dangerous woman."

"Dangerous how?"

"That's the fun part of danger, finding out."

When he smiled at her, his characteristic "I know more than you" toothy smile, she felt her gut twist with the visceral memory of the bar, the dark. She remembered his hands. Trying to laugh off the vestigial shivers, she shook her head lightly.

"You're strange."

"Do you like strange?" The way he leaned against the sofa created the perfect pocket of space for her to fit beside him.

Resisting the urge to fold into his side, she simply smiled, "Do you like dangerous?"

"I've been known to partake."

"I could say the same."

"Well then," he lifted his glass in a private toast, "to the New Year. May it be both dangerous and strange."

"I thought you didn't like gala formalities."

"No, but one can be persuaded if their company is tolerable enough."

Their conversation was interrupted by the chiming of the clock, midnight evidently having waited just long enough for him to send it off. She glanced around at the cheering others, taking a breath.

"In that case, would you consider your company tolerable enough for one last formality?"

"It would be bad luck not to."

Meeting her halfway, he kissed her perfect lips, letting his hand brush against her hair. The kiss was brief, broken all too quickly after it began, but still the sensation lingered, caught up within him amongst the spilled champagne.

How entirely dangerous and strange, he thought, noticing anew how her hands fluttered, tensing and untensing against the seat. How completely and damningly dangerous and strange.


	40. Game of Thrones

Game of Thrones: Arranged Marriage AU

Ko-Fi commission for the lovely testingforcake23

...

She hadn't cried during the wedding, for that she was grateful. The ceremonies of it all had been rushed faster than they ought to be, eager to solidify the union and the assumption of the house. She had always been told she was due for a grand wedding, or at least an enjoyable one, being generally regarded as pretty enough to marry well and her station guaranteeing that she would at least marry into a family with power. But this? This was unforeseen, unreasonable. She had stared at him, the traitorous bastard, hating the smugness of his smile. This wasn't what she had wanted. The marriage itself was an embarrassment, an affair that likely would have been swept under the rugs of family history if not for the power that came along with it. She had never been vain enough to think she'd rise terribly high in status, but to have it all come about in such a manner? It was nauseating. In theory, it was an excellent path for her; the sole lady of a vassal house, no threats of potential disputes as to heirs. It was a clean slate, provided by the utter extermination of the Reynes. Or rather, almost utter. He, for his own part, mostly watched her in silence, keeping his mouth shut when he ought to, agreeing to plans laid out before him for the sake of saving his own head. For a moment she had considered running off, thinking even death would be a better alternative, but in the bleak face of it she had been unable to commit. No, she would do what she was raised to do, what she had to do. She would obey, would secure this union if only for the sake of her family.

Even as they dressed her hair, she had heard her ladies whispering stories they had heard, about him, about his late family. Stories about how they had been animals, dangerous and terrible, how they were little more than an infestation, horrifying and revolting. She wanted to throw up, wanted to die, but watching her crying reflection, steeled herself. She wouldn't break for him. If nothing else, she would be his hell.

As far as punishments went, he could think of plenty worse. Still nursing the wretched wound of his complete and utter loss, he had been shocked to see such a pretty young thing brought to the wedding hall. Truly, he had expected someone more… well, challenging. She was still young enough to break, still fresh and not hardened by any real acquisition of power. Just looking at her, he could see all the animosity she held clear in her dark eyes. It almost made him laugh, how readily she hated him. And such a small thing too, drowned in the expanse of the wedding cloak that surrounded her. With any luck, she'd remain just as silent, would be terrified enough to stay in her place; that's what her hatred was, at the heart of it, just fear. He wondered if that was as clear to her as it was to him. She stood stone-still, a perfect mirror of the lifeless state behind her, save for the eyes. Her hands shook as he took them, gripping her tighter than necessary. If she was his lifeline, he was going to do everything in his power to make sure she didn't escape. She would be his, now and forever, until the end of time, and as such he would be spared his life, would be allowed to live in the dark shadow of shame. That wasn't a problem, though; he was well-equipped to climb up from nothing. It was in his blood to lust.

When he kissed her, it was tight, joyless. He seemed more concerned with getting it done than anything. That at least was a small relief; she hadn't wanted to be embarrassed any more than she already was. The banquet was smaller than it ought to be, again only emphasizing the haphazard nature of the union, the general agreement that it was an unpleasant reality. No one else seemed to mind, though, too grateful that it wasn't their problem. She sat beside him, hating him, hating the way he had snatched her future out from beneath her. As the eldest daughter, it had been her responsibility to secure a profitable alliance, but this? Now her family had to to navigate the treacherous waters of his association. Maybe they could spin it into a tale of loyalty, of the fidelity of the members of their line. She stared vacantly across the hall, wondering how any of this could possibly be alright ever again.

His heart having calcified long ago, he wasn't too concerned with the implications of the union outside of how it profited him. He wouldn't forget how he had been wronged, but if it saved him to fight another day, he could fake humility long enough to lick his wounds. He watched her face, still stone cold, still pale, the color of her lips dark against her countenance. Pity he hadn't had a chance to saver the kiss, too busy making sure she didn't ruin it. He wouldn't give her the chance to jeopardize him. No matter how badly it hurt, he needed to survive. It was what he was built to do.

The loud ringing of the halls came to a complete and utter silence as the door was shut behind them, leaving her dizzy with terror in the quiet of the marriage chamber. She froze, feeling the ground beneath her feet, half-ready to run at a moment's notice. He, for his own part, began to walk the perimeter of the room, examining the decor.

"Not bad. And they call us vain."

"Vain enough to die for it." As soon as she spoke, he fixed his eyes upon her, their brightness shining in the dark.

"I'd nearly forgotten you could speak. Tell me," giving the wall one last cursory glance, he began to walk towards her, "is it even worth getting acquainted at his point, or do you plan on remaining a silent little rabbit for the rest of your life?"

"I'm not afraid of you." She hated how terrified the words made her sound.

He smiled, showing his teeth, "Have I given you reason to be? So skittish. Are all of you such cowards?"

"If you think they won't kill you-"

"Please, who is there to betray me? My little mouse of a wife?" Laughing, he turned away from her, removing his cloak, dropping it upon a chair.

"I will. You owe respect to-"

"I owe nothing to no one. I think you'll figure that out quite soon." Turning, he regarded her again, glancing up and down over her frame, "So tell me, what's the terrible secret?"

"Terrible secret?"

"I'm assuming you're meant to be some sort of an embarrassment to the house. You're a whore, aren't you?" Leaning against the bedpost, he pointed towards her meaningfully.

Angered, she felt her face flush, "Absolutely not! I am a virtuous member-"

"A bastard child?"

"No! I have full right to the blood of my family, and I-"

"A thief? Slave? Carrying the bastard son of one of the highborn men?" He cocked his eyebrow, prompting her with open palm.

"No! None of that!"

"Then what's the secret? The trick?"

"The greater trick is upon me, marrying me to a traitor!"

"You're not coming from some form of lowly disgrace?"

"You are the lowly disgrace!"

"Lowly? You're marrying up, my dear. My," he smirked, standing slowly before sauntering over to her, "yours is a generous liege, isn't he? The price of my head is a pretty little noble girl's hand?" Saying so, he took her hand in his own, kissing her fingers. "Tell me, how did you come to be so lucky? Or did you have to fight for the honor?"

"Being raised with honor as I was," she pulled her hand away, disgusted, "I was ready to do what I must for my liege."

"He really must not like you."

"It's not a matter of preference. I perform the duties of my station, nothing more."

"Curious," he smiled, looking over her again. "I'm sensing you aren't too happy about that."

"I do what I must."

"That should make this union easier," he, more than a bit excited at the prospects, allowed himself to relax into his attraction to her. She wasn't so much trouble after all. Poor girl, she had just managed to land herself in the wrong spot, and he was ready to take every advantage of the fact.

"Rather, I do what I must when I'm told by those with rightful authority," she glared at him vindictively.

Unable to stop himself, he laughed, "Oh, upset, are we?"

"You come from an ignoble line of traitors and usurpers. You'll pardon me for not being thrilled at the match."

"And there's the rub. I knew there was a greater secret hidden somewhere." Still smirking, he regarded her, "You're a problem, aren't you?"

"No so much a problem as infidelity to the House."

"And this is my punishment, then? A nosy wife?" He smirked, tilting her chin up, forcing her to look at him. Irritated, she pushed his hand away but he caught her wrist, holding it tight. "Well. No problem that can't be solved."

"If you try to strike me I'll scream," she glared at him, trying very hard not to shake.

"Please do, if it will make you feel any better. What good do you think it would do you, really?"

"You still live upon my lands."

"Your lands? What a vain thing you are, no wonder they were so ready to see you off."

"You answer to my liege, and-"

"Your liege," he stepped closer, his voice dropping low, "is not here right now."

"If you think-"

"You're not used to not having your pride, are you?" he smiled, cold and curious, "I see now. They give me the brat, solve two problems at once. How long have they been trying to be rid of you?"

"You're eager to speak to things you don't understand."

"I was a godsend, wasn't I?" he pinched her chin between his fingers, drawing his face close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath. "With a tongue like that, they never dreamed they could marry you up, did they?"

"You cannot speak to me that way," she hated the tremble in her voice.

"Oh, but I can. You answer to me now." He paused, drinking in her expression, "How does that feel?"

To his surprise, tears began to prick at the corner of her eyes. For the first time, she stopped being an enemy to be broken, dissolving into a terrified girl. He loosened his grip.

"Oh come now. Didn't anyone ever tell you you were only a pawn for power? This can't be news to you." Looking away, she refused to meet his eyes, glaring down at the floor. "Or did you really think your life would always be gardens and banquets in your parents' halls?" Still silent, she didn't even try to brush her tears away, letting them fall into small droplets upon the ground. "As far as matches go, you could have done much worse," he chided her, cupping her face in his hands, once again directing her gaze towards himself. "I'll keep you in your comforts. Certainly, such a pretty thing deserves a gilded cage."

"Is that all you think I care about?" her voice rang with disdain.

"Perhaps. I wonder though, at how long you think I'll put up with this disagreeableness. You ought to know I don't like things getting in my way. And seeing as the entirety of your role is to get in my way," he breathed in, tracing a thumb along her jaw, "we've already met an impasse."

"What, then? You'll kill me?" she stepped back from his touch.

Smirking, he folded his hands behind his back, examining the room impartially, "My, what stories your ladies must have told you." He smiled, enjoying the discomfort evident in her frame. "Let me guess-do I also drink the blood of virgins and sleep among the dead? Or, is there a secret chamber within my room, stuffed full of nosy wives who met their untimely end?"

"You oversell yourself," her voice was pinched, afraid.

"I assure you," stepping forward, he laced his arms behind her, pulling her towards his chest, "I'm not quite as horrid as all that. In fact, should you learn your place, I believe you'll find I'm not so very horrid at all."

"You'll always be horrid. And you will be held to your actions someday."

"Held how, exactly? Will they reward me with another brat?" Smirking, he dragged his hand along her side, feeling the richness of the fabric of her dress. She shuddered. "Is that my grand punishment? What does that say about you, then? Poor little Lady Violet, played by all the rules, curtseyed at all the right times, and still ended up in my marriage bed. Do you see what good behavior gets you?"

"I do what I must for my liege," tears stood in her eyes again as she looked away, trying to hide them.

"Your liege has made you sacrificial lamb among the wolves, dear. There are no rules, only consequences. And it looks like yours took a turn against plan." Gripping her cheek again, he pressed his face to hers, kissing her pouting lips. She stiffened, her hands caught against his chest, but he didn't let go, refused to stop until he needed to pull back for air. "Call us disloyal all you like, but we died rather than bow before a man we saw as weak. Loyalty is only owed to yourself, so lucky for you, you've managed such a fine match. What fate, allowing you to rise with me," he kissed her again. "Don't worry. Once we have what is ours," slowly, he moved his hand down her neck, over her chest, to her side, "you can make them pay for what they thought they did to you."

As he kissed her neck, trailing his lips down to her shoulder, she found his words unexpectedly sweet in her thoughts. The man had a silver tongue, was capable of bending truth. She felt herself being walked back towards the bed, his traitorous mouth still kissing her own, blasphemous and more powerful than she had been prepared for.


	41. Bad Decisions, the Remix

Indulgent College AU because it's blatantly my favorite and I have no shame

...

She was still mad the next day, still annoyed. All class long she stared at him, irritation making her cold with contempt. Oblivious as ever, he continued droning on, his lecture absolute torture. He wouldn't even look at her, didn't want to acknowledge her. She wondered if he was as upset as she was. Probably not; the man was too vain to care about anybody else. Having had enough of his smug attitude, she raised her hand.

"Yes, Miss…?"

She grit her teeth. The bastard. "Baudelaire."

"Yes, Baudelaire. Do you have a question?"

"A correction."

"Oh?" He cocked his eyebrow. She nodded stiffly.

"You said the role of the daughter was to redeem her father's mistakes."

"Yes?"

"That's incorrect. Her role is to further the narrative. She can't redeem him because she's written entirely within his shadow, and once she isn't, she takes every opportunity to make different choices than he did. She doesn't actually care about his legacy, she's just doing right by herself."

"Well, that's certainly an interpretation. An incorrect one, but I'm glad to see you thinking analytically."

She felt her face burn at his words. She didn't actually care about the play, she only wanted to show him up. It was about so much more than her reading, it was about principle, about his status as an insufferable ass. Tense, she interrupted as he began to speak again, "Setting aside the misogyny of the writing, when you examine the text it's the most legitimate reading of the play."

"I can see why you would think that, but you cannot remove the piece from its original historical context. She only makes sense as a continuation of her father. It's a novice mistake, perfectly acceptable for a student to make, but now you know better. Now, I hope you've all remembered your essays are due next week, so-"

Quickly, she raised her hand, shoving down the thoughts warning her that this was a bad idea.

"You have something else to add, Miss Baudelaire?" His gaze was tired, irritated.

She took another deep breath. "That's a rather uneducated interpretation, don't you think?" She saw him freeze and felt momentarily elated with the knowledge that she had successfully pissed him off. "Care to rephrase that?"

"Of course, sorry. That's a rather BAD interpretation. Is that better?"

The class fell silent, each person holding a collective breath. She could see his jaw tighten.

"Do you mean to tell me that you feel confident enough in your very novice abilities to disregard my professional opinion in entirety?"

"That depends. Is the entirety of it just as bad?" As soon as she said it, she knew she had crossed a line. Instantly, she regretted it, wanted to take it back, but even more so, she felt drunk off her success. It was much too late to back down now. "Do you find having bad opinions gets in the way of your professional career? Or do they go hand in hand?"

Livid, he stood, pressing his hands to his desk, "Enough!" He looked so angry, for a brief moment she considered publicly apologizing, slinking away defeated. It would only make things worse though; she had created this hell, and now she must endure it. "Miss Baudelaire, if you would be so kind, I would like to have a word with you after class!"

"Alright," she muttered, heart still racing from her shock of adrenaline.

"Pardon? I didn't quite catch that."

"Yes, Professor."

"Now, if no one else has anything to add to the curriculum?" he paused, looking around the room, holding the silence for longer than necessary. "No? Alright. I'll see the rest of you Thursday."

Eager to escape, the rest of the students scurried out as tentatively, she stood, sliding her books into her bag.

"Listen, I didn't mean to-"

Snapping a hand up, he silenced her. Shutting the door, he paused, and then, just as quiet, locked it. The click resonated in her gut, tumbled inside her. When he turned to face her, it was with a glowing anger in his eyes, "Do you enjoy trying to make a fool of me, Miss Baudelaire?"

"No, I didn't-"

"Or do you just like seeing how completely aggravating you can become?"

"Listen! I just-"

"Not. Another. Word!" Holding his hand up again, he silenced her with a motion so sharp she quickly decided it would be rather to her benefit to just let him finish. "No matter our… personal relations, in this classroom, I am still your figure of authority and I expect you to treat me with respect. In here, you do not interrupt. You do not argue. You do not start petty quarrels for the sake of being a brat. Do not bring it into my classroom. Understood?"

Embarrassed at both her juvenile behavior and the reprimandation, she looked away, not wanting to meet his eyes, "Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, Professor. Sorry." She flushed, embarrassed. He was right. She hated when he was right.

"Good. Now," he began to undo the clasp of his belt, pulling it open. "On your knees, Miss Baudelaire."

"Excuse me?"

"On. Your knees." Slowly, she lowered herself, feeling the uncomfortably gritty carpet beneath her. "Good." Standing in front of her, he tilted her chin up, looking down at her. "Now, be a good little co-ed and open your mouth for me." He began pressing his thumb between her lips, waiting until she opened her mouth, letting him press it to her tongue slowly, closing her lips around his finger. He scowled in an effort to hide a smile, furrowing his brow as, watching her, he pulled down the waist of his pants, palming himself beneath his suit.

Taking his time, he began to stroke his quickly stiffening arousal, savoring the view. She looked up at him, uncharacteristically quiet as pulling his cock out, he began to stroke it. Having imagined the sight before him hundreds of times, he didn't have much work to do. She didn't say anything else, cautiously restraining a smirk as he stroked himself a few more times before tilting her head back, placing the tip of his erection on her tongue. Pleased with herself, she closed her lips around him, humming a quiet sound which he assumed was meant to further tease him. Tangling his hand within her hair, he tightened his grip, sliding himself further into her mouth. Gingerly, she brought her hand up, wrapping her fingers around his shaft, taking a deep breath as groaning, he gave a shallow thrust, his breath hissing between his teeth. She tensed, slowly sliding her fingers along his length, trying to meet his depth as he gave another thrust. Whining against the strain, she eased back, taking a moment before allowing him to push in.

"Funny, you were so eager with that smart mouth earlier."

She simply looked up at him, her eyes dark and wide, damningly innocent as carefully, she eased further down, groaning as he tightened his grip. Slowly, she began to pump with her hand, watching him questioningly.

"That's better, there we go," he grit his teeth as she slid her tongue along the underside of his cock.

Pulling back, she moved her lips over the tip with a pop, "Forgive me yet?"

"I'm deciding. Don't stop."

"Alright," she smiled, moving her fingers across his length, slowly sliding her tongue along the underside of his erection.

"Alright, what?" his words were strained, just barely shoved from between his teeth.

"Alright, Professor."

"Better, Miss Baudelaire. You're learning." He smiled despite himself, running his fingers through her hair, pushing it back. Smirking, she leaned forward to take him back into her mouth, moving slowly over him. She was all delightful wet warmth, her hand soft against him as she bobbed down. Quickening, he began to roll his hips forwards, prompting her to match his pace. "There you go; good, that's good." She fought to stay steady, her hand speeding up, trying to reach anything she couldn't with her lips. Straining, she whined, the sound heaven against him as he thrust into her mouth, holding her firmly. Despite the mischievous twinkle in her eye that told him she wasn't quite sorry, he knew he wouldn't stay mad; he couldn't. Not with her willing to drop to her knees for him. No, he couldn't stay mad, not with her, his Violet.

His brow was furrowed in concentration, all seriousness as he thrust towards her. She tried to keep her mouth open, figuring that biting him could only end poorly at this point. He groaned, cursing as she pressed her tongue against him.

"Fuck, Violet," he took a sharp breath in, smirking. "I thought you were supposed to be a good girl."

Pulling back, she took a breath, continuing to slide her hand over his erection attentively, "I'm a quick learner."

"You're a fucking succubus is what you are. And you're mine," he tilted her head back, making sure she was looking into his eyes. "Yes?"

"Yes," she spoke quietly, the feeling bubbling inside her ribs.

"Still in the classroom, dear."

"Yes, Professor."

"There we go. There's the good girl." His words dissolved into a moan as she took him back into her mouth, letting her tongue slip over the tip of his arousal. "Fuck. Fuck, Violet, fuck." His grip tightened, his breathing growing labored as he began to buck against her, trying to thrust further into her mouth. She pushed back against his hands, not trusting herself to the depth he obviously wanted, trying to compensate with her fingers. And then, with a groan, he came, shuddering, his fingers tight against her, trying to use her for balance. She pulled back, still holding him in her mouth, his desperate grip holding her against himself as he finished. Finally, sighing, he leaned back, beginning to right himself.

"Yes, well," he shivered, still enjoying the pleasurable echos of his climax. "I hope you've learned a lesson, Miss Baudelaire."

"I certainly have." Gently, she stood, carefully brushing at her skirt. The lilting tone in her voice warned him that she had not, in fact, learned the lesson she was supposed to.

"In my classroom, you abide by my rules."

"What about your apartment?" she cocked her eyebrow.

He stared at her, "Pardon?"

"If I were to, say, challenge your theater choices there, then what happens?"

"That depends," he growled, crossing his arms. "What are you wearing in this scenario?"

Smiling, she began to resituate her hair. "I don't know. What should I be wearing?"

"Something form fitting. Not black; it's not your color."

"Green?"

"Green could work."

"Are you sure about the black? I've got something I think you might be interested in."

"Another black dress?"

"It's not a dress."

Pausing, he took a moment before nodding, "That'll do then."

"Good. So I'll see you at eight?"

"Are you going to run your mouth again?"

"If I do," stepping forward, she smoothed out the wrinkles from his shirt, taking her time before looking up to meet his eyes, mere inches away, "do I get to make the rules?"

"If you don't, I'll let you ride me until you lose the ability to talk back."

"Deal." Pleased, she kissed his cheek lightly before easing off her toes, unlocking the door and leaving.


	42. Countess

He kissed her lips, her forehead, her cheeks. She laughed, placing her hands over his, holding them.

"Stop it! You're ridiculous!"

"I have earned the right to adore you, and I plan on taking every advantage of the fact."

"You're unbelievable."

"And you," pausing, he kissed her lips, her wide smile, feeling her laugh against his face, "are my wife."

"Yes?" She cocked her eyebrow, smirking as she wrapped her arms behind his neck.

"My wife. My bride. My Countess." He kissed her again, wondered if there had ever been bliss like this before.

"Now you're just overdoing it."

"If anything, I'm holding back."

"How is that even possible?"

"You underestimate me, Countess."

"How are you not tired of that?"

"Tired of what?"

"Putting Countess at the end of every sentence."

"I like saying it."

"Evidently."

"You don't like it?"

"Seems vain, don't you think?"

"Is it vanity if it's earned?"

"You're such a jerk."

"And you're my wife," he kissed her again, letting the happiness crack his chest open. Wrapping his arms behind her, he lifted her up, felt the warm strength of her holding onto him. She laughed as he spun her, the sound catching inside his heart, tangling like kite strings. She was so beautiful, so lovely.

Placing her back down upon the ground, he cupped her cheeks, kissed her mouth.

"I can't remember ever seeing you so happy," she muttered the words against his lips, just barely managing space enough to speak.

"Yes, well. Can you blame me?"

"For all the bravado, you're really such a simple man."

"Nonsense. I am exclusively satisfied with the best. And you," he kissed her again, "are the best."

"Yes? Is that so?" She smirked, feeling her gut tighten.

"Don't believe me?"

"Of course I do." Slowly, she slipped her hands over his shoulders, beginning to undo the buttons of his shirt. "I just like being told so."

"Well then," he smiled again, elated and ravenous, "I'll just have to keep saying it." He kissed her cheek, her jaw. "You're so beautiful. And I," he brushed her hair back, his eyes like tempered glass, "am so in love with you."

Still feeling rather tempestuous, she kissed him back, sighing as he reached behind her, unzipping the back of her dress. With a soft shrug, she let it slip over her shoulders to the floor, slowly walking backwards towards the bed.

She was bliss, she was divinity. She was his wife. As she let him lay her down, he couldn't resist the temptation to run a hand over her body, admiring her.

"You're so beautiful," he kissed the words into her mouth.

"Is that all?" She teased him, holding his lips to hers.

"Of course not. You're also an enormous pain."

"Rude."

"It's true, Countess." Gentle, he touched her skin, her body, kissing her throat as he slowly brought his hand up to palm her breast.

"Do you really have to say that?"

"I like it."

"I don't. Sounds weird."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

More than a bit disappointed, he shrugged, "Whatever keeps you happy, love." He kissed her again, quickly consoled by the feeling of her hands pulling his shirt off. "You absolutely are a nightmare though."

"Yes, well. You're welcome."

"What about 'my wife?' Is that okay?"

"Still weird, don't you think?"

"My love?"

"So dramatic."

"My headache?"

"What's wrong with my actual name?"

"Bit personal, don't you think?"

"We're literally married."

"Fine, fine. If you want to be devastatingly unromantic," he sighed dramatically, "I suppose that's okay."

Smiling, she opened her mouth as he kissed her. Still feeling like his body was actively rejecting his heart, he slipped his tongue into her mouth, getting shivers when her own tongue pushed back. How many times had he kissed her? It had to be near countless, and yet, every time she left him hopelessly lost in her gravity.

"I love you," he could hear the adoration in his voice, felt the turn of her lip as she smiled.

"I love you too, I suppose."

His heart beached itself upon these sands, determined to either make a home or perish.

"My Kit. Unkind and beautiful Kit."

Laughing, she pulled him back down into the kiss, back into the uncharted waters of his love.


End file.
